


Frontier Medicine

by LaughtersMelody



Category: Emergency!
Genre: Adventure, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Western, American Civil War, American History, Family, Friendship, Gen, Historical, Historical References, Western
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-10
Updated: 2018-09-16
Packaged: 2019-06-08 00:34:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 62,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15231477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaughtersMelody/pseuds/LaughtersMelody
Summary: It's the year 1868, and Roy DeSoto, a Civil War veteran who served with the ambulance wagons, is headed out west to California with his family. He has a job waiting for him there, but only if he can convince a certain doctor that hiring him is the right choice. Emergency set in the Old West. Complete.





	1. The Cure for What Ails You

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: I carefully researched both the Old West and the Civil War to try to make this fic feel realistic, but I'm not aiming for absolute accuracy in everything. Essentially, my goal has been to make it feel like something that could have happened, rather than something that actually did. So, please take any inaccuracies as artist license. :) Also, I couldn't resist a few small nods to the old Western television shows and movies, so you might see a little bit of Hollywood flare once in a while.
> 
> A/N2: I started working on this fic months ago, and I wasn't expecting it to take quite so long - or to turn out as long as it did, lol. My dear friend, NatalieGH, has been a great support and encouragement when I battled with some of the really stubborn chapters, and it just so happens that I am posing this on her birthday. So, happy birthday, NatalieGH! I hope you have an awesome day! *hugs*
> 
> As always, I thank my Lord Jesus Christ for his incredible mercy and grace and his many blessings. I would be utterly lost without him.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this, and please let me know what you think!

**If you see anything marked with an asterisk (*), it will have an historical or content note at the bottom of the page with more information. The information will be listed in order of appearance. You don't have to read the notes for the fic to make sense, but I wanted to offer the information anyway, for anyone who might enjoy some more detail about the subjects mentioned. :)**

* * *

  **Frontier Medicine **

Chapter 1: The Cure for What Ails You

_Los Angeles County, California, mid August, 1868_

Dust was everywhere.

That wasn't unexpected in the desert, though, and from what Dixie had said in her letters, it had been an especially dry year on top of it.

It showed.

The wagon and the horses kicked up large plumes along the rugged path other travelers had worn through the landscape, leaving everything covered in a gritty, brown film.

Joanne and the children usually walked along beside the wagon, so they avoided the worst of it, but since Roy was the one driving the team, that meant he was covered in dust from head to toe at the end of each day. He didn't mind it too much. After three years of serving with the ambulance wagons during the war*, he'd been covered in far worse.

Joanne seemed to see it as a personal challenge, however, taking his clothes every evening and beating the dust out of them until they finally lost that tell-tale brown tint. They might not have much to their names, she'd said, but she wasn't going to let anyone in her family go around looking like vagabond.

A small smile curved his lips. His wife would take on the whole desert as a matter of principle, and he loved that about her. Still, Roy looked forward to an evening that didn't include beating his shirt and trousers into submission, and when Mud Springs* finally came into view, Roy breathed a sigh of relief.

The town was a small oasis in the desert, a valley of green amidst a sea of brown.

Joanne seemed even more eager, though she insisted that they make themselves presentable before entering the town itself and searching out the medical clinic. He agreed, recognizing the determined glint in Joanne's eye - there was no arguing with her when she looked like that and it was better not to try.

Besides, Dixie had mentioned that her husband had misgivings about hiring Roy at all, so he needed to make a good impression on the man. Looking his best - and not like he'd spent the last several months behind a two-horse hitch - might not influence the doctor one way or the other, but it couldn't hurt.

It was over an hour before Joanne was finally satisfied, but at last, the DeSoto family - all a great deal cleaner than they had been previously - piled into the wagon together and made their way down into the valley.

They attracted more than a few curious stares as they went, but the town was small enough that the scrutiny was probably something every new visitor was treated to. Those curious looks grew to a murmur when Roy stopped their wagon in front of an imposing building at the far end of the main street. It was just as Dixie had described it.

The two story structure was painted a light blue, with white, scrolling accents around the windows and wooden shingles on the roof and over the porch. A sign above the porch proclaimed the building's purpose as a medical clinic, and the name of the doctor in residence was written at the bottom.

Roy's eyes lingered on those letters for a moment.

_Dr. Kelly Brackett, M.D._

Roy had known the man only by his reputation before Dixie had married him. He was a protégé of both Johns Hopkins* and William Worrall Mayo*, and during the war, he'd been lauded as one of the North's best doctors. But, he was also said to have a quick temper and no patience for fools.

Dixie insisted that once you got past all the prickles and burrs, Kelly Brackett was a charming and genial man - though Roy wondered if, being Brackett's wife, Dixie was the only one who really got to see that side of the good doctor. He'd certainly never heard any corpsmen, nurses, or surgeons describe him that way.

Still, Brackett  _had_  chosen to settle all the way out West after the war, rather than establishing a lucrative practice in the East. According to Dixie, the move had been inspired by the fact that there were so few qualified physicians available in the burgeoning western communities, and Brackett had wanted to go where he was needed most. That spoke of the man's character if nothing else did. Well, that and Dixie's good opinion. She didn't put her husband up on a pedestal, that much was clear, but Roy knew that Dixie never would have married him if he were anything less than the man she thought he was.

Roy was just going to have to trust Dixie's judgment…and he did. He'd never met a woman that could keep her head in a crisis better than Dixie could. When he'd first been introduced to her at Chattanooga, she'd been a bastion of calm in the chaos of the medical tents, always ready with a soothing word and a steady hand, treating injuries that made even seasoned military men balk. She'd become a comfort to him, too, willing to listen if he needed to talk and quick to absolve him of the guilt he felt because he couldn't do more for the men he'd carried off the battlefield.

Roy smiled faintly. Dixie had called herself an old maid then, and she seemed content to be so, insisting that she wanted to devote all of her time and energy to nursing. But war had a way of changing your perspective, Roy knew, and a few months after the war had ended, Dixie had written to tell him that she'd gotten married to none other than Dr. Kelly Brackett, "a very old, very dear friend." A few months after that, Dixie had written again to tell him that she and her new husband were making their way West.

Roy had never expected to follow her. He'd intended to live out the rest of his days in his home state of Pennsylvania, but the home he returned to was not the home he remembered. Everywhere he'd looked, he had seen only the wounds the war had left behind, both on the ruined cities and on the lives of those who remained. Work had been plentiful, thanks to the ongoing rebuilding efforts, but even that hadn't been enough to entice him stay. He'd needed a new beginning, and Joanne - bless his beautiful wife - had understood that.

Still, California hadn't been his first choice. In fact, he'd seriously considered making a go of it in the Colorado territory. The Pike's Peak Gold Rush* had mostly dwindled, but he'd heard that mining would continue, and there were still opportunities aplenty for hardworking, honest men.

Then, he'd gotten another letter from Dixie.

Brackett, she'd explained, was the only doctor for miles. The nearest physician in the area, a man named Joe Early, lived in Victorville. Dixie said he was a good man who was quickly becoming a good friend, but the distance between their respective clinics was just too great for him to be of much help with Brackett's practice.

Brackett, for his part, had apparently been running himself ragged trying to cover as much territory as possible, and he was growing increasingly frustrated by losing patients he could have saved if only they'd received timely care. Dixie, practical woman that she was, had suggested that she treat some of the less serious patients herself, but Brackett was too worried for her safety to allow her to travel alone. Dixie understood, but on bad days, it could take almost as much time to find an escort for her as it could to actually reach a patient that needed help.

Dixie had finally suggested that they hire someone for that very purpose - someone who could escort her to her patients or, when the need arose, diagnose and assist a patient themselves. Brackett had, at first, absolutely refused, insisting that having amateurs getting underfoot would only make his job more difficult.

But Dixie hadn't given up - which didn't surprise Roy in the least - and in the end, Brackett had finally, grudgingly agreed. To a point. In Dixie's words,  _"The stubborn man will only hire someone on a trial basis. A trial basis. Honestly, a mule's less hard-headed."_

Roy snorted softly as he remembered Dixie's obvious exasperation with her husband, but the amusement faded quickly. As he'd soon learned, Dixie hoped that  _Roy_  could be the one to prove her husband wrong. She knew Roy had decided to move his family out West, and she was certain that his experience with the ambulance wagons made him the perfect fit for the new role.

" _We could hire one of the ranch hands in town, Roy, but it will take Kel a month to teach them half of what you already know. Please tell me you'll think about it."_

Roy had. He'd thought about it long and hard.

On one hand, California was awfully far away, especially if there was a possibility that he'd make the trip only to work for a month or two, fail to impress Dr. Brackett, and then find himself jobless. He had a family to support, and he was asking enough of them already without adding that sort of uncertainty to the mix. On the other hand, if he accepted Dixie's offer, he had the guarantee of work right away, and even if the job didn't pan out in the long run, he would have enough time to learn the area and get hired-on somewhere else. That was an advantage he wouldn't have anywhere except California.

Moreover, he couldn't deny that the job appealed to him. He'd seen things during the war that would haunt his dreams for the rest of his life, but even so, serving as he had, he'd felt…useful. Needed. He'd  _helped_ people. No other job he'd ever set his hand to had given him that chance.

So, in the end, after many long discussions with Joanne, he'd written back to Dixie and told her that he'd do it.

Seven months later, here he was.

Taking a deep breath, Roy finally drew his gaze away from the sign on Brackett's clinic, then he stepped down from the wagon and took off his hat, his fingers curling around the brim.

Brackett was from old money back East, his father and grandfather both having been prominent lawyers. Brackett had broken with family tradition by becoming a doctor, and Dixie said that despite his upbringing, he cared little for the trappings of the wealthy. But Roy was suddenly, acutely aware that his best suit was old and faded, and despite Joanne's valiant efforts, his hat was worn and weathered after the long journey.

Did he look like a man that Kelly Brackett would want to hire? He hoped so, since the doctor charged as little as possible for his services, and he would, essentially, be paying Roy out of his own pocket. More than that, for the time being, at least, he would be putting a roof over their heads as well. Brackett owned a sizeable house just outside of town - he and Dixie had bought it with the intention of supplementing the space in their clinic, should the need ever arise - and he had agreed to provide Roy and his family with room and board for the first few months of their stay. Roy suspected that the arrangement had actually been Dixie's idea, but he was no less grateful for it.

Squaring his shoulders, Roy stepped onto the porch, lifted a hand, and knocked on the door.

He heard footsteps, and a moment later the door swung open, revealing a woman with a familiar head of blonde hair. Dixie's mouth broke into a large grin, and Roy felt a smile lighting up his own face.

"Roy!" Dixie greeted warmly, reaching out to squeeze his hand. "I'd hoped you'd be arriving soon. It's so good to see you!"

"It's good to see you too, Dix," he answered, giving her hand a squeeze in return.

Dixie hadn't changed much in the two years since he'd seen her last. Her blonde hair was pulled up into a simple bun, a few shorter strands falling around her face. She wore a light green dress with long sleeves, and a white apron was tied around her waist. It had faint, reddish-brown stains on it that Roy recognized as dried blood.

Dixie caught his gaze.

"Fight in the saloon," she explained simply. "Had to stitch up a scalp laceration a little while ago."

Roy frowned faintly. If Dixie had been the one to treat them, then where was Brackett? He glanced around the clinic - what he could see of it, anyway - and Dixie must have known what he was thinking.

"Kel isn't here right now. He left early this morning when he learned that Mrs. Russell was in labor. The Russell farm isn't too far from San Gabriel, so it's a long trip, even if there aren't any complications with the birth."

Roy nodded his understanding. "Never a dull moment," he said wryly.

Dixie laughed. "You've got that right. Speaking of," she began, reaching behind her back to untie the strings of her bloodied apron, "why don't you introduce me to that family of yours before someone interrupts us?"

Roy huffed a soft laugh and agreed. He waited until Dixie had hung the apron on a hook by the door, and then he led her over to the wagon where his family waited.

Already guessing his intentions, Joanne held out a hand, and Roy helped her balance as she climbed down to the ground. Behind her, Chris clambered down by himself, and Roy reached up to lift Jennifer from the wagon bed, setting her beside her mother.

"Dixie," Roy said, turning back to the nurse, "this is my wife, Joanne."

Dixie reached out to clasp Joanne's hands in welcome. "It's so nice to finally meet you! Roy's told me so much about you."

Joanne smiled warmly in return. "It's wonderful to meet you too. Roy speaks very highly of you."

"The feeling is mutual, believe me."

Roy stepped behind his children, resting his hands on their shoulders. "And this is our son Christopher, and our daughter, Jennifer."

Roy had to smile as Chris tipped the hat he wore, giving Dixie a stilted bow, clearly imitating a wealthy gentleman they'd seen back in Denver. "It's nice to meet you, Mrs. Brackett."

The nurse grinned at the gesture. "You, young man, can call me Dixie."

"Can I call you Dixie too?" Jennifer piped up.

Dixie bent down to match Jennifer's smaller height, her hands resting on her knees. "Of course you can."

Jennifer preened at the privilege, and Roy shared an amused look with his wife.

"Now," Dixie added, giving Jennifer one last smile before she straightened up, "like I told Roy, Kel isn't here right now - he left this morning to deliver a baby. But, I was just about to head home and get a start on supper, and I know you must all be very tired from your trip. How about you join me?"

Roy smiled, retaking his place beside his wife and reaching out to draw her closer. "We'd be much obliged."

Joanne leaned into his side and nodded eagerly. "That really would be wonderful. We haven't had anything that wasn't cooked over a campfire since Virginia City."

"Well, I can't guarantee how good it will be - I'm no great shakes in the kitchen - but I promise it'll be made over a cook-stove." Dixie smiled wryly and nodded at the clinic. "My buckboard is around the back. Just give me a few minutes to clean up a bit and hitch up the horses, and then we can head out."

Roy and Joanne both agreed readily, and got themselves and the children settled back inside the wagon while they waited for Dixie to return.

The wait wasn't a long one, and soon enough, they were on the move once again, Dixie's buckboard leading the way ahead of them. It was still dusty - apparently, even Mud Springs was feeling the effects of the drought in the area - but the ride through town sure was a lot smoother than the sort they'd all become accustomed to over the last few months, and Roy couldn't deny that he appreciated the change. He was certain that Joanne did too.

In just a few minutes, they'd passed the town's boundaries and were headed back into open land, though Roy guessed that they didn't have too far to go. He knew from Dixie's letters that she and her husband had made a very deliberate choice when they'd bought the house they now owned. They'd wanted something close to town so that they could be easily reached if there was an emergency, but far enough away that they could have a little privacy as well.

The house had fit the bill perfectly. It had originally belonged to a rancher who'd been a long-time staple in the region's cattle business, having carved out a niche for himself even before California had become a state. He'd managed to remain neutral during the war with Mexico*, and business had continued at a steady pace, but eventually, age had turned out to be the one opponent he couldn't beat. Unable to keep up with the demanding work any longer, and without an heir to follow him, he'd parceled off his land and sold it to other settlers and businessmen as the nearby town grew. He'd retired on the money and headed back East to spend his final days in comfort.

The large house he'd built for himself had been the last to sell, since most folks headed out West simply didn't have the money to afford it. But Brackett had paid full price, purchasing the main house as well as well as the stable, corral, and the old bunkhouse that Roy and his family would occupy for the next few months.

The house, Roy saw as they rounded the last bend in the road, was just as impressive as Dixie had made it seem in her letters. It was two stories high and it had the appearance of a sprawling log cabin. It was made of pine, the ends of the logs having aged into a deep, amber hue, and there were three windows on each floor, all with glass panes. A brown, shingle roof covered the building, and it had a big front porch that was framed by four wooden pillars.

Overall, the house had an undeniably masculine air - probably the intent of the bachelor rancher who had commissioned it - but Roy could already see Dixie's touch softening the edges. A flourishing garden took up a stretch of land right in front of the house, carefully arranged gray stones outlined the pathway leading to the front door, and wooden benches and a couple rocking chairs sat on the porch, facing the nearby mountains.

The bunkhouse was a short distance away, located beside the stable and nearby corral. It was a long, low building that had clearly been designed to match its neighbor, because it was built of the same type of pine. A porch ran the length of it, and the roof reached over that porch, supported by wooden posts at regular intervals. A red, stone chimney stretched up into the sky on one end, and like the main house, its windows had glass panes. It obviously hadn't been lived in the way that the main house had been, but it looked welcoming enough, and Dixie had assured them that it had been kept in good repair. Judging by the size, Roy knew there would be more than enough room for him and his family, and with two energetic children to look after, that had been one of his and Jo's biggest concerns.

Dixie stopped her buckboard in front of the corral, and Roy brought his team to a halt behind her. She hopped down from her seat and smiled as she walked towards them, stopping beside the wagon.

"You can pull your wagon right into the stable - we only keep a few horses ourselves, so there's more than enough room for it along with my buckboard. And you can turn your horses out in the corral with mine. I'll make sure they have some fresh hay."

"I could get the hay," Roy offered, but Dixie shook her head.

"No, I'll do it," she insisted. "You have to be exhausted, and besides, you're not a hired-hand yet, Roy DeSoto. You're a guest."

Roy was tempted to argue, but Dixie wasn't wrong - he was bone-tired. So, he accepted with a grateful nod and did as Dixie suggested.

When their wagon was tucked in beside Dixie's buckboard in the stable, Roy unhitched the horses and led them out to the corral. They seemed happy to finally be free of the heavy tack, and pranced around the corral a few times, kicking their heels up and shaking their manes before joining Dixie's horses at the water trough.

Once the horses had been seen to, Dixie asked if they would like to see the bunkhouse now, or if they preferred to wait until later. Weary as he was, Roy couldn't deny his curiosity, and Jo seemed just as eager as he was to see the place that would be their home for the next few months at least. Even the kids were bouncing with excitement - they'd never seen the inside of a bunkhouse before, and were apparently delighted by the thought that they would be living in one.

When Dixie opened the door and led them inside, Roy was certainly pleased.

The bunkhouse was, essentially, one long room, and it was just as large as he'd anticipated. The air inside smelled just the faintest bit musty, likely from having been shut up for so long, but Dixie had obviously made an effort to air it out, because it was clean and fresh bedding had been added to four of the bunks. The other bunks had been cleared away, and a sheet had been hung up between the four remaining ones, forming a makeshift wall and offering them all a little privacy. A metal washtub and a washbasin - both of which look new - rested in one of the corners, and simple, blue curtains had been hung around the windows.

"Feel free to change them if you prefer your own," Dixie told Joanne.

The far end of the bunkhouse, opposite their beds, had been set up like a kitchen, with a table and chairs, a few shelves for storage, a fireplace, and a small cook-stove.

Joanne seemed especially relieved that the bunkhouse needed so little work to make it livable - all that really remained was for them to move their few belongings in - and she pulled Dixie into a grateful hug. The older woman returned it with a grin.

"Well," she said with a laugh, "you came all the way out here just so Roy could be hired on a 'trial basis' by my mule-headed husband - it's the least I could do."

Roy had to smile at that himself, remembering Dixie's complaints from her letter.

"We thank you just the same," he said sincerely.

"It was my pleasure, Roy. Really." She smiled again. "You're welcome to start unpacking if you'd like, or you can join me in the main house. Kel will probably be getting back soon, so I'd better get started on supper."

Roy shared a glance with Joanne - he knew she was anxious to get settled, but he wasn't surprised when she turned back to Dixie and offered, "Can I give you a hand in the kitchen?"

"Oh, that's not necessary," Dixie started, clearly ready to tell Joanne exactly what she'd told Roy earlier.

Joanne, however, wouldn't hear it.

"Please, I insist. You've done so much for us already, and the work will go faster with two of us. Honestly, I'd enjoy the chance to work in an actual kitchen again."

Dixie eyed her for a moment, clearly torn between being a good hostess and being practical, but finally she nodded. "Alright, I'd appreciate that. Thank you."

A few minutes later, they were all gathered in a well-appointed kitchen that made Roy wonder if the original owner of the property had actually hoped to marry one day, or if he just had a healthy appreciation for a good meal. It had all the modern conveniences money could buy, including a fireplace, a cast iron stove, plenty of shelf space, a large work table, and a sink with a small reservoir of water.

Roy sat in a nearby chair, keeping Dixie and his wife company, but knowing that the best thing he could probably do to help was to stay out of their way. (Though, he did wind up chopping some extra wood for the stove when Dixie realized she needed more.) The kids alternated between playing some sort of game on the floor in front of the fireplace and retrieving ingredients for Dixie or Joanne whenever they were asked to.

The kitchen had just begin to fill with the delicious aroma of fresh bread and beef stew when the sound of a horse and wagon could be heard in the distance.

Dixie listened for a moment then smiled. "The horses don't sound like they're in a hurry, so I'll bet that's Kel."

Roy felt his throat get a little dry, all his earlier worries about making a good impression quickly returning. It was almost worse than it had been before, now that he'd seen the man's house. Even if money didn't matter to him, Kelly Brackett was still clearly used to having the best of everything, and Roy was just a simple family man from Pennsylvania. Was Dixie right? Was he really the best person for this job? Would Brackett think so?

Roy had taken his jacket off and rolled up his shirt sleeves when he'd gone out to chop that wood for Dixie, but now he rolled his sleeves back down and donned that jacket once again, slipping it on and instinctively sitting up a little straighter.

He was glad he'd taken the time to do so when he heard the tread of a footstep on the porch outside, and then the sound of the front door opening.

"Dix?" a deep voice called.

"In the kitchen!" Dixie called back.

Those footsteps grew louder, and then a tall, solidly-built man filled the doorway of the kitchen. Being a tall man himself, Roy guessed that he actually had an inch or two on the good doctor, but there was something intimidating about Brackett just the same. The confident way he held himself made him seem bigger than he was in actual fact. The black hat he wore only added to the effect, and short, thick, dark hair was visible beneath the brim. He looked to be somewhere in his early 40s, and he was blue-eyed and clean-shaven, though Roy could see a faint shadow around his jaw, evidence of the early start he'd had that morning.

He wore a long, gray frock coat that ended at his thighs, and he had a striped, dark gray vest and a white shirt underneath that. A loose, black bow tie was fastened around his neck, and he wore black riding boots and black pants. And, Roy realized, he had black medical bag in one hand and a black gun belt slung low on his hip. On any other man, that might have seemed contradictory, but Brackett carried them both with ease.

Brackett smiled at his wife. "Oh, I'm sorry, Dixie, I didn't realize we had company."

"Not just any company. Kel, this is Roy DeSoto."

Brackett's piercing gaze immediately turned towards him, and Roy quickly stood, offering his hand.

"Dr. Brackett," he said formally. "It's an honor to meet you."

Bracket didn't answer for a moment, his eyes narrowing faintly in blatant assessment, his smile fading into something less welcoming and more reserved. It made him look less like Dixie's happy husband, and more like the foreboding doctor Roy had heard nervous corpsmen whisper about during the war.

Roy held Brackett's gaze evenly, keeping the sudden rush of nerves he felt from making any impact on his expression. He'd dragged men off the battle field under fire. He could face down one - albeit intimidating - doctor.

"Mr. DeSoto," Brackett said finally, taking his hand.

Roy glanced over at Dixie again, just in time to see her give her husband an annoyed look at his lackluster greeting, but her voice was cheerful as she introduced Joanne, Christopher, and Jennifer.

Brackett tipped his hat to Joanne, offering her a respectful, "Ma'am," and his smile returned as he said hello to the children.

"Dinner should be ready in a half an hour or so," Dixie told him. "Why don't you go get cleaned up, Kel, and then maybe you and Roy can go into your study and talk."

Brackett seemed reluctant, but another look from his wife finally had him agreeing. "Alright. I have to see to the horses as well, but if you wouldn't mind showing Mr. DeSoto to my study, I'll be there as soon as I can." He paused and turned back to Roy. "Is that alright with you, Mr. Desoto?" he asked.

Roy nodded. "Yes, that'll be fine."

"Good."

Brackett tipped his hat to Joanne once more in farewell, then spun on his heel and strode back out through the door without another word.

Dixie watched him go and then sighed, shaking her head in apparent exasperation before she stepped out from behind the work table.

"Come on, Roy, let me take you to the study."

Roy glanced over at his family. The children, he was glad to see, had resumed their game, apparently unaware of the tension around them. Joanne, for her part, seemed concerned by the cold reception he'd been given, but as soon as he caught her eye, she summoned up an encouraging smile. He returned it, wanting to reassure her, and then he moved to follow Dixie.

The nurse paused to hang her apron on a nearby hook before leading him from the kitchen and down a long hallway.

"I promise you," Dixie said wryly, "Kel's really not that bad once you get to know him."

Roy's lips quirked. "'Charming and genial,' you said."

"And he is!" Dixie insisted, though she sighed again a moment later. "At least he is when he wants to be. He's just frustrated, and he's taking it out on the person who least deserves it:  _you_. But you'll win him over, I have no doubt."

"Thanks, Dix."

"You're welcome. I mean it, Roy."

When they reached the end of the corridor, Dixie stopped in front of a wooden door that looked as solid as its owner.

"Here we are," she said, and pushed the door open, revealing a room that was dominated by a large, mahogany desk. A patterned maroon rug covered the floor, and dark blue curtains framed the large window on the east wall. A simple but elegant oak chair sat behind the desk, and two matching chairs had been placed in front of the desk, clearly intended for guests. But, it was the wall behind the desk that drew Roy's attention. It was lined by shelves that were overflowing with thick, leather-bound tomes. Judging by the few titles Roy could read at this distance, they were all medical volumes of some kind. Roy wondered how Brackett had gotten them all out West. Likely, he'd had them shipped by train. Roy couldn't imagine hauling all of those across the country in a wagon.

Dixie gestured to one of chairs situated in front of the desk, and Roy accepted the seat gratefully, though, given the grandeur of his surroundings, he couldn't deny that it made him feel a little bit like a schoolboy who'd been called to the headmaster's office.

Roy snorted softly at the thought, and after Dixie left, he spent the rest of his wait reading the titles on the spines of the books*, trying to guess what they might be about, and whether or not he'd learned anything about those subjects during the war. So far, his experience didn't seem to be much help.

 _The Principles and Practice of Modern Surgery_.

 _The Diagnosis, Pathology, and Treatment Of the Diseases of the Chest_.

_A Practical Treatise on Fractures and Dislocations._

_A Conspectus of the Pharmacopoeias of the London Edinburgh and College Of Physicians._

Roy frowned at that last one, but before he could try to puzzle out its meaning, the door behind him opened again, and he turned to see Brackett step into the room. He'd left his frock coat and hat behind, leaving him in his gray, striped vest, white shirt, and black pants. The shadow of stubble was gone now as well, and his hair was combed. His revolver and gunbelt were also noticeably absent. Roy decided to take that as a good sign.

Brackett walked around to the other side of the desk and sat down.

"Mr. DeSoto," he began, "I apologize if I seemed…abrupt…earlier. It's been a long day."

The hesitant tone of Brackett's voice suggested that he wasn't a man used to apologizing, and Roy wondered if Dixie had insisted upon it. He bit back a smile at the thought.

"I can imagine," he offered aloud. "Dixie said you left early this morning."

"Right after sunup," Brackett confirmed. "I'll admit, when I came home, I wasn't prepared for company."

"Especially my kind?" Roy guessed.

Brackett's lips quirked faintly, and he nodded.

"Please know, Mr. DeSoto, that I have nothing against you. From what Dixie's told me, you're a fine man. But I am not particularly enthusiastic about the reason that you're here. I just don't think that hiring an extra hand is the answer to the problem we're facing."

"But you agreed to hire me anyway," Roy pointed out.

Brackett sighed, leaning back in his chair. "I did," he conceded.

"Why?"

"Because I'm desperate," Brackett said frankly. "We lost three people last week alone, and all of them might have been saved if they could have gotten help sooner. It's been that way from the beginning. Some weeks are better than others, but in the end, the numbers don't lie. We're losing more people than we save. So, even if I don't think my wife's idea is the solution we need, I'm hoping that doing  _something_ will be better than doing  _nothing_."

Roy nodded in understanding. It wasn't exactly a glowing endorsement, but at least Brackett seemed willing to give him a chance.

"Distance is my biggest problem," Brackett continued. "Mrs. Russell, whose baby I delivered today, did most of the work by herself before I even got there." The doctor shook his head wryly. "Thankfully, she had a healthy baby boy, and mother and child are both doing just fine. But it still took me all day to make it there and back, and most of my day wasn't even spent with the patient, but sitting on that blasted wagon. Unfortunately, days like today are fairly routine, so chances are good that if there's an emergency, that's where I am, out in the middle of nowhere, headed to a patient who, for one reason or another, is already past the point of needing my help. And, meanwhile, there's someone worse off who is out there dying - and they  _are_  dying, Mr. DeSoto, believe me - but my hands are tied because no matter how much I want to help them, I can't be in two places at once."

It was Roy's turn to lean back in his chair as he considered the doctor's words. Brackett's frustration was palpable, and Roy couldn't help but sympathize. He remembered the frantic sprints he had made across still-active battle fields, desperate to reach as many wounded men as possible, but there was only so much room in the ambulance wagon, and there were always more wounded than he could carry. It was an impossible situation, the kind that could drive a man to the brink…and Brackett's personal battlefield was much, much bigger. Moreover, while Roy had the support of the soldiers assigned to the wagons with him, Brackett had only Dixie.

Roy frowned at the thought.

"You don't think extra manpower will help you?" he asked.

"It's not just a question manpower, it's a question of  _qualified_  manpower," Brackett clarified. "Out here, you'll find any number of people who claim to know 'doctoring.' Some of them are well-intentioned and some of them aren't. But in my opinion, they all do more harm than good. The last thing I need is another man like them, running around with my approval. If I'm going to hire you, I need to train you properly, and that's more involved than it sounds. I've studied medicine for years, Mr. DeSoto, and I'm still learning my craft. I'm not convinced that giving you a few basic lessons will be enough to make you qualified to treat anyone."

"I see," Roy answered. And he did, truly. "But even though you're not convinced, you're still willing to try?"

Brackett didn't look happy but he nodded. "I am. I told Dixie that I would."

Roy had to smile at that. "She can certainly be persuasive."

"That she can. And persistent."

Roy stifled a laugh, managing to turn it into a cough before he cleared his throat. "So," he pressed, wanting to be sure, "the contract we agreed upon through our correspondence still stands?"

Brackett nodded again. "It does. I'll hire you on a trial-basis for three months, wages and room and board included. In the event that this little experiment proves to be more successful than I expect, we'll discuss extending that contract when the time comes. But," he warned, "you should know, Mr. DeSoto, that it won't be easy. There's a lot you'll need to learn, and I won't allow you near a patient unless I'm absolutely certain that you're ready."

"I wouldn't have it any other way," Roy assured.

Brackett seemed pleased by his answer.

"Well, then, Mr. DeSoto," he said, "tomorrow, we get to work."

**TBC**

* * *

Historical and Content Notes

**The American Civil War** : The American Civil War lasted from April 12, 1861 to May 13, 1865. (Please see the note about ambulance wagons below.)

 **Civil War Ambulance Wagons** : While ambulance wagons have a history going back to the Crusades of the 11th century, the American ambulance service owes a lot of its advancement to the Civil War period. It was during the Civil War that the medical corps became far more organized, and treatment of the injured was streamlined. William A. Hammond, who became the Surgeon General of the Union Army in 1862, is considered to be the "Father of Modern Ambulance Services." (Source: emt-resources (d o t) c o m, "The History of Ambulances.")

 **Mud Springs** : Mud Springs was the original name for the city of San Dimas, California. The name change took place about 1887. The name "San Dimas" was taken from a nearby canon, because it "sounded better than 'Mud Springs' and would therefore be more likely to attract new residents." (Source: lacountylibrary (d o t) o r g, "San Dimas, Frequently Asked Questions.") San Dimas is located in the San Gabriel Valley of Los Angeles County. (Source: sandimaschamber (d o t) c o m, "Points of Interest.")

 **Johns Hopkins** : Despite the fact that a well-known hospital and a medical college both bear his name, Johns Hopkins (May 19, 1795 – December 24, 1873) was not a doctor himself, so I'm using a bit of artistic license here. :) He was an "American entrepreneur, abolitionist and philanthropist of 19th-century Baltimore, Maryland." (Wikipedia.) During the Civil War, he was a staunch supporter of the Union and Abraham Lincoln, and a dedicated abolitionist. The hospital bearing his name was founded 1889. Per Hopkins' instructions, the hospital was, "first, to provide assistance to the poor of 'all races', no matter the indigent patient's 'age, sex or color.'" (Wikipedia.)

 **William Worrall Mayo** : William Worrall Mayo (May 31, 1819 – March 6, 1911) was not well-known during the Civil War, so again, this is a bit of artistic license on my part. In fact, at the start of the Civil War, "Mayo attempted to procure a commission as a military surgeon, but was rejected." (Wikipedia.) He did, however, eventually serve as a surgeon during the war in Rochester, Minnesota, and he liked the area enough that he moved his family there. In 1883, a tornado devastated Rochester. In response, Mayo, his two sons who were also physicians, and the Sisters of St. Francis came together to treat the injured. This is usually considered the beginning of the "Mayo Clinic Story." (Wikipedia.)

 **The Pikes Peak Gold Rush** : Gold was discovered near present-day Denver in 1858/59, drawing nearly 100,000 gold seekers. It continued until about 1861. (Wikipedia.)

 **The Mexican-American War** : The Mexican-American War lasted from 1846 to 1848. California was then incorporated into the United States following the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo, and was granted statehood on September 9, 1850. (Source: britannica (d o t) c o m, "Mexican-American War.")

 **Civil War Medical Books:** The titles I included in my fic are actual books from the Civil War period. Their authors and dates of publication are as follows:

 _The Diagnosis, Pathology, and Treatment Of the Diseases of the Chest_  by W.W. Gerhard, 1860.

 _The Principles and Practice of Modern Surgery_  by Robert Druitt, 1860.

 _A Practical Treatise on Fractures and Dislocations_  by Frank Hastings Hamilton, 1863.

 _A Conspectus of the Pharmacopoeias of the London Edinburgh and College Of Physicians_  by Anthony Thomson, 1861.

(Source: I found these book titles and others at civilwarmedicalbooks (d o t) c o m.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This fic is already complete, and Lord willing, updates should be coming every few days or so. It is twelve chapters in total. And don't worry - Johnny and other familiar faces will be joining Roy soon. :) 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, and please let me know what you think! 
> 
> Take care and God bless!
> 
> -Laughter


	2. What the Doctor Ordered

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I wanted to give a very big shout-out to my fabulous beta, LaramyLady51, AKA Darth Mom. Once again, as far as I am concerned, she is the best beta in this galaxy and in any other. She was kind enough to put up with all of my questions about the Old West and Old West/Civil War Era medicine, many of which started, "Hey, do you know if they…?" If I couldn't find it online, she could usually lead me in the right direction. She was an immense help and encouragement, as she always is. :)
> 
> Important Note:
> 
> In this chapter, and the following chapters, the issue of racial discrimination will play a role in the storyline. Such discrimination was unfortunately widespread in that period, with animosity and hatred directed towards groups like the Mexicans, the Irish, African Americans, and Native Americans, among others. I have always loved the fact that that Emergency has such a wonderfully diverse cast of characters, and since I'm including as many of them as I can in this story, I felt it would be unrealistic to try to ignore the issue in any way. Racial discrimination is not the main thrust of the story, but it will be part of what shapes events, and so I just wanted to state that whatever negative views certain original characters may have, they are not in any way reflective of my own views in regards to race.

** Frontier Medicine **

Chapter 2: What the Doctor Ordered

Brackett hadn't been exaggerating. It  _wasn't_  easy.

Roy had always done well in school, but the weighty medical tomes Brackett wanted him to study were far beyond the lessons he'd received in a one-room, Pennsylvania schoolhouse. Oftentimes, it was like learning an entirely new language. In fact, Roy supposed, he was learning  _three_  new languages, since many of Brackett's texts were filled with Greek or Latin.

He couldn't deny feeling more than a little overwhelmed at first, his mind swimming with facts, figures, and procedures that he was expected to memorize, and he wondered if he would ever truly make sense of it all. But, gradually, he began to grasp the new concepts, and the imposing textbooks became a little less daunting.

He did, at least, finally see why Dixie had told him that it would take a month to teach someone else half of what he "already knew." He might not have had formal medical training, but his experiences during the war did give him an advantage. He had seen what the human body looked like when it was broken into individual pieces, and while those images still haunted him, it also meant that he had a fairly solid understanding of how those pieces were meant to fit together. He only needed to learn about the intricate mechanisms behind them, and memorize the medical terminology to describe their functions.

When he wasn't studying, he was traveling with Brackett while the doctor went about his work. He was under strict orders from Brackett to observe only, though the doctor did allow him help in a non-medical capacity if needed - lifting or fetching things, mostly. Roy understood why it was necessary, but the more he learned, the more frustrated he became with the limitations that had been placed on him. That was especially true now that Roy had seen the sorts of issues Brackett was facing.

On one occasion, Brackett had been called to treat a woman who had been thrown from her horse. She'd been fortunate, and the worst of her injuries proved to be a badly sprained ankle. But, as they'd learned upon returning to the clinic, while Brackett was tending to that ankle, a man on a distant farm had been cleaning his rifle and accidentally shot himself in the chest. Dixie had managed to find someone to escort her to the man's house, but by the time she got there, it was too late.

There was no doubt in Roy's mind - Dixie was right. She and Brackett did need the sort of help that a trained hand could provide, and after four weeks, Roy was starting to believe that he could actually  _do_  that job. Yet, nothing was set in stone. If Brackett wasn't satisfied with his progress, then he might never be allowed to use his hard-earned skills.

Still, Roy knew that Brackett had his reasons - good reasons - for being so cautious. The last thing Roy wanted to do was accidentally hurt someone because he'd been overconfident in his untested abilities. He was learning, yes, but he wasn't a doctor, and he wouldn't pretend to be one. Compared to Brackett, he was still a greenhorn - and he would be for a long, long time. Not that he ever expected to reach Brackett's level of expertise.*

One thing was certain - even if his frustration was growing, so too was his regard for the doctor. He now knew why Brackett had a reputation as a harsh taskmaster who didn't tolerate mistakes. But, he'd also come to see that Brackett always held himself to the same high standards that he demanded from others, and he couldn't help but be impressed by Brackett's dedication to his profession. Very rarely did Brackett actually need to look something up in his library. When he gave Roy a new book to study, he would rattle off a summary of the contents as though he'd memorized the text long ago. It wouldn't have surprised Roy if he had.

Beyond that - beyond everything that made him an exceptional doctor - Roy was slowly learning that Brackett was also a man with a surprisingly good sense of humor, a man of compassion, a man who cared not just about medicine, but about  _people._  Roy could even say that he was beginning to consider Brackett a friend, and he thought that the doctor might just say the same about him. He'd stopped calling him "Mr. DeSoto" early on, and Roy had slipped into calling him "Doc," the way the townspeople did, without even realizing that he'd done it. These days, Brackett was more likely to greet Roy with a smile than not, and even though it was clear that he still had his doubts about this "little experiment," as he'd called it, Roy got the impression that, at the very least, Brackett didn't doubt Roy's own dedication to the job at hand.

And speaking of the job at hand, Roy thought wryly, this afternoon found him in the clinic with Bracket and Dixie. Despite the fact that the clinic was supposed to be Brackett's main office, actually spending any time there was something of a novelty for Roy. Like Brackett had told him, most of his time really was spent "on that blasted wagon."

Now, however, they all stood in the clinic's exam room. A wooden exam table served as the room's centerpiece, while Brackett's desk and a coat rack sat in the corner, near the door, and a small grouping of wooden chairs sat against the wall adjacent to that. The far wall held a large cabinet filled with medicines, along with a chest of drawers that held Brackett's instruments. Beside that, a tall-case clock kept steady time, the pendulum glinting faintly, catching the sunlight as it shone through the window that looked out onto the street.

The atmosphere might almost have been peaceful if it weren't for the man currently occupying that exam table.

"I'm telling' ya, I ain't hurt none!"

"Mr. Ames, you have a broken right leg," Brackett told him.

"Well, I sure don't feel it!"

"I'll bet," Dixie muttered under her breath.

Roy glanced over at her and snorted softly.

The man in question, a Mr. Bo Ames, was wiry with a dark mustache, short gray hair, and brown eyes. He hadn't been in town long, but he was already becoming somewhat notorious for his love of a strong drink. Today, he had finished most of a bottle of whiskey at the saloon, then tried to head back up to his room on the second floor of the boardinghouse. But drunkenness and a narrow staircase didn't mix, and he'd tumbled right back down those stairs a few minutes later. The owner of the boardinghouse, Mrs. Hilliard, had sent for Brackett immediately, and together, he and Roy had gotten Ames into the wagon and driven him to the clinic. Ames, however, had spent the entire ride insisting that he was just fine, thank you very much, and his protests had only grown louder when they'd carried him into the exam room.

Brackett sighed, clearly reaching the limit of his patience. "Believe me, Mr. Ames, you'll be feeling it later."

Ames muttered something about know-it-all-doctors and started to push himself up from the exam table. Brackett immediately stopped him, and Roy hurried forward to help, holding onto the drunken man's shoulders while Brackett and Dixie both tried to coax him into staying put. Ames had been fortunate - it was a simple fracture, and it wouldn't need to be set. Still, he could do some serious damage to his leg just by walking on it now.

They had almost succeeded in getting him to cooperate when they heard the sound of horses' hooves pounding down the street, though the noise was almost overshadowed by the clattering of a wagon.

Roy had been working with Brackett long enough to recognize what that meant, and he wasn't surprised when a moment later, there was a frantic, feminine cry of, "Doc! Doc Brackett!" right outside the clinic's door.

Brackett glanced over at Dixie. "Think you can handle him, Dix?" he asked.

He looked pointedly at Ames who, for the moment at least, seemed a little less likely to try to get up and run off.

Dixie nodded. "I'll be alright for a few minutes, Kel. Go."

Brackett immediately turned and ran the short distance to the door, and Roy was right behind him.

As soon as they were out on the boardwalk, Roy recognized the woman at the reins of the wagon. She was young, perhaps in her early twenties at the latest, with long, brown hair and brown eyes, and she wore a simple blue dress. They had visited her and her mother a few days earlier - her mother had, in her daughter's words, "been feeling poorly lately." Brackett had examined the older woman, and he hadn't found anything truly concerning, but he'd told the girl to keep a close eye on her just the same.

That certainly seemed prudent now.

"What's wrong, Essie?" Brackett asked, though, judging by his expression, like Roy, he could already guess.

"It's Ma! She'd having chest pains. Real bad ones."

"Why didn't you bring her with you?" Brackett demanded.

"You know how stubborn Ma is! She wouldn't go."

Brackett made a frustrated noise, but he didn't waste time arguing. "Let me grab my bag, and you can take me to her."

Essie nodded anxiously, her hands curling a little tighter around the reins she held.

Brackett spun on his heel and hurried back into the clinic, headed straight for the medical bag that sat on his desk. Roy followed behind him.

"Do you want me to come with you, Doc?" he asked.

Brackett glanced over at the exam table where Ames sat. Dixie's charm must have finally worked its magic, because the man was a lot more relaxed. His earlier protests apparently forgotten, he'd even started singing a slurred, off-key version of "Old Dan Tucker." That seemed like a good sign, but Roy could read the hesitation in Brackett's eyes. So far, Ames been a surly drunk, not a violent one, but Roy knew that could change. He certainly wouldn't have wanted to leave Joanne alone with him, if he'd been in the doctor's place.

"No," Brackett said at last. "Right now, I think I'd rather you stay here with Dixie."

Roy nodded in understanding, and a moment later, Brackett was out the door and climbing up into the wagon beside Essie. Essie gave a sharp whistle, flicking the reins, and the wagon took off down the street as fast as it had come.

There was a minute of unbroken silence, and then:

"Ol' Dan Tucker wassa fine ol' man…Wast his face wif a fryin' pan…"

It was the third time Ames had repeated that verse.

Roy looked over at Dixie who was watching the now-cheerful drunk with a wry expression.

"Well, Roy," she said, "at least we don't have to worry about hurting him while we splint his leg."

As it turned out, Dixie was right, and Roy was honestly grateful for it. It made the process of treating him a lot easier.

Ames had ripped his pants at the knee when he'd fallen, and since it was simpler than trying to take his trousers off, Dixie finished what he'd started, using a knife to slit the pants leg from his knee down to his ankle. Roy took the man's boots off, as well as the sock on his injured leg, though he left the other in place. Once that was through, Dixie gave him the job of holding Ames's lower leg while she put wooden boards on either side. The leg was already swollen and bruised, the skin turning black and blue all along the shin. Brackett was right - Ames would definitely be feeling it once he sobered up. When Dixie was satisfied with the way the boards were positioned, she started wrapping strips of linen around the boards and the leg both, bracing the injured limb and keeping it immobile.

Ames had finally quieted, watching the whole procedure with a bleary sort of interest, and when the wrapping was finished, Roy and Dixie managed to get Ames over to a bed in the next room without letting him put any weight on that leg.

They both breathed a sigh of relief when Ames's head hit the pillow and his eyes drifted shut.

Roy grabbed another pillow to elevate Ames's leg, while Dixie covered him with a light blanket and retrieved a basin, setting it beside his bed. Given how much he'd had to drink, he would probably be needing it later.

Afterwards, Roy followed Dixie back into the exam room where he helped her to roll up and put away the unused linen, and then Dixie did a quick inventory of the medicine cabinet. She took the opportunity to test him, asking him the names and uses of each medication before she put the bottle back in its place. Roy was pleased to find that he knew them all, though it had taken him a moment to remember the more obscure uses for some of them. He made a note look those up again.

He watched as Dixie locked the cabinet, but as his gaze drifted to the floor, he realized that they'd tracked in some dirt earlier while helping Ames. Roy started for the broom closet, planning to sweep it up. He had almost reached it when the sound of pounding horses' hooves came for the second time that day, and he stilled, listening. There was no wagon this time, but there could be no doubt that whoever the rider was, they were headed for the clinic.

Dixie must have realized it at the same time he did, because she was already halfway out the door. Roy followed behind her, stepping out onto the boardwalk once again. He stared in surprise for a moment when he realized the size of the of the rider who was galloping towards them.

It was a little boy with blond hair and blue eyes. He couldn't have been older than eight, and Roy felt his heart give a jolt as he was almost painfully reminded of his own son. The little boy wore no hat, so it was easy to make out his expression - he was frantic. He stopped his horse in front of the clinic and hopped off, taking a few, big, desperate gulps of air before rapid-fire words tumbled from his lips.

"Nurse Dixie! Pa needs Doc Brackett! He's hurt real bad! He was choppin' wood and the ax head came off! He's bleeding somethin' awful!"

Roy longed to reach out to him, but he'd never met this boy, and he wasn't sure he'd welcome a stranger's comfort, so Roy held his peace. He knew he'd made the right choice when Dixie bent down so that she was at the boy's level and put her hands on his shoulders, looking him in the eyes.

"Jacob, just calm down a minute. Where did the ax head hit your pa?"

"In the leg, above his ankle!"

"Was he awake when you left to get help?"

"Yes! He told me to go, so I saddled Stormy real fast and came straight here!"

Dixie nodded. "Okay, Jacob. You did a good job, and now I need you to listen to me. Doc Brackett isn't here right now, but we're still gonna get your pa the help he needs, alright?"

Tears shown in his eyes, but he nodded.

"Go take Stormy around the back, and get him settled in the corral. I'll come to fetch you in a minute."

The little boy nodded again, biting his lip, but he did as he'd been told.

Dixie straightened up as soon as he'd left, already shaking her head. When she looked at Roy, her eyes were troubled.

"Roy, I can't leave Ames now. If he wakes up and tries to walk…"

Roy grimaced. It didn't seem right that a drunk got Dixie's attention while an injured father didn't, but frustrating as it was, he didn't wish Ames ill, and if the man did try to use that leg now, he could very well wind up with a limp for the rest of his life.

Dixie sighed. "You'll have to head out to the Miller farm alone. You'll need to bind the wound and bring him back here for treatment. As far as I'm concerned, you're more than qualified for that, and if Kel has a problem with it, he can take it up with me later."

Roy nodded. "What about the boy?"

"I'll keep him here with me. Mrs. Miller passed away last year, so he has no one else besides his pa."

Roy heard what she wasn't saying - it was impossible to know how much time had actually passed since the accident, and depending on where the ax had hit his lower leg, Mr. Miller might have bled out already. If that was the case, it was the last thing his son needed to see. He'd seen too much already.

Nonetheless, Roy hated the idea of leaving Dixie with Ames, even if the man was currently unconscious. Brackett had, after all, wanted him to stay behind for a reason.

Dixie must have sensed his reluctance because she offered him a small smile. "I don't think Ames will be any trouble," she added. "But if he is, I'll send Jacob for the sheriff. I'll be alright, Roy. Really."

Satisfied at last, Roy agreed, and Dixie went around back to talk to Jacob while Roy hurried inside the clinic to pack some supplies. He grabbed a saddle bag, filling it with several rolls of bandages, a rag and some chloroform should Mr. Miller still be conscious and in pain, and a small bundle of light blankets to keep the patient warm. After a moment of consideration, he also grabbed a canteen filled with water, and another set of wooden boards for a splint.

A hand-drawn map of the town and surrounding area was the last thing to join the supplies in his bag. Brackett had made it for him a few weeks ago, and it was one of the many things Roy was expected to memorize. He'd studied it enough that he felt comfortable making his way around without it, but he would feel better having it along just the same. He checked it before he put it in his pack, and spotted the Miller farm up near the top, a relatively short ride from town.

When he was satisfied that he had everything he might need, Roy slung the saddle bag and canteen over his shoulder, put on his hat, and reached for the rifle he kept beside Brackett's desk. He'd brought two rifles out West with him, and here in Mud Springs, he kept one inside the bunkhouse, and the other - the one in his hand now - he carried with him when he traveled with the doctor.

He sincerely hoped that he would never need to use it - he'd seen enough of killing during the war to last him a lifetime. But he understood the necessity, and he was reminded of it every time he'd watched Brackett arm himself before he left to see to his patients.

Animals were a concern, for one. The foothills were home to mountain lions, wolves, and snakes, all of which could be dangerous enough to warrant the extra protection. There were human predators to consider as well. The area was usually peaceful, the doctor had told him, but outlaws weren't unheard of, and a man traveling in the middle of nowhere had best be prepared to defend himself.*

" _I don't like it,"_ Brackett had said.  _"I came here to put people back together, not to blow holes in them. But if I have to, I'll protect myself, my patients, and everyone I care about."_

Brackett was certainly prepared to do just that. He had invited Roy to join him for target practice one day, and Roy had been surprised to learn that the doctor was an excellent shot.* Though, he supposed, if the doctor had practiced shooting with the same, single-minded intensity that he practiced medicine, then it really shouldn't have been such a shock.

Roy left the clinic through the back door, walking directly to the buckboard that was beside the corral. Dixie had already hitched up the horses, and Jacob stood a short distance away with the nurse behind him, her hands resting on his shoulders. Jacob looked like he wanted to cry, though he was trying not to, his chin held high even as his lips trembled with suppressed tears.

"You're gonna go get my pa, Mr. DeSoto?" he asked.

"Yes, I am, son." Knowing there wasn't a second to lose, Roy put the saddle bag and canteen into the buckboard and positioned his rifle so that it would be within easy reach. Then he pulled himself up into the seat and took the reins in hand. "Where was your pa when he was hurt?"

"Behind the barn, close to the woodshed."

Roy nodded. "I'll take good care of him, and I'll bring him back here as soon as I can," he promised.

Then, with a flick of his wrist and a click of his tongue, he spurred the horses into motion, urging them forward until the buckboard was moving as fast as he dared.

The landscape rushed past him in a blur as buildings gave way to groves of trees and brush-covered hills, but finally, he reached the boundary of the Miller farm. The house was far more humble than the one Dixie and Brackett had bought, just a simple building made of weathered wood, but the owner had obviously taken pains to care for it. The house was in good repair, and the yard was neat, everything in its place.

Roy drove up to the house and stopped his wagon in front of it, then hopped out, grabbing his saddle bag and canteen as he went. Knowing that he would need to keep his hands free to treat Mr. Miller, he left the rifle behind.

He caught sight of the barn and immediately started in that direction. He debated for a moment about calling out, but he didn't want to startle the man if he was still conscious, and to be honest, if Miller  _was_  conscious, he wasn't quite sure how Miller would react to his arrival. Would he welcome the help, or would he be uncomfortable with the fact that Roy wasn't a doctor? So, far, most of the townspeople had leaned towards the latter. They just didn't seem to know what to make of his presence.

Dixie and Brackett had begun telling the public about their plans to train an assistant as soon as Roy had agreed to join them. So, most of the townspeople hadn't needed an explanation when Brackett had started making the rounds with him, but Roy still felt their uncertain - and sometimes scathing - stares. It might have been easier if he  _was_  actually a doctor, since, in that case, Brackett could have introduced him as a colleague. But because he wasn't a doctor, though not quite a layman either, it made it hard for most people to put him into a familiar category. He was something  _other_ , something that the public didn't have a name for yet. He hoped that the situation would change for the better with time, especially when - if - Brackett finally allowed him to care for patients on his own, but for now, he was still very much an unknown quantity.

He prayed that wouldn't be a problem in this case. He would do everything he could to help regardless, but trying to assure Mr. Miller of his skills would waste time the injured man didn't have.

Roy finally came around the back of the barn, and the woodshed Jacob had described was visible immediately. There, just as the boy had said, was his father. Mr. Miller was unconscious, laying prone on the ground near an old stump, the broken ax's handle and the loose ax head sitting close by. But to Roy's surprise, he wasn't alone. Another man was bent over him, wrapping something carefully around his right leg.

He was a lean man, though Roy guessed that the tan, leather jacket he wore hid hard, wiry muscle beneath it, given the way that the fabric stretched over his narrow shoulders. Dark, wavy hair fell around his neck, though most of it was hidden by a brown Stetson with an elaborate hat band. Roy was too far away to see the detail in it, but he thought he saw small silver, red, and turquoise cabochons worked into the design. Two eagle feathers were tucked into that band on the right side, and Roy realized, there was some sort of beaded armband tied around the upper part of the jacket's right sleeve. The man was crouching in the dirt beside Mr. Miller, so Roy couldn't see much of his face, but he had on brown trousers and soft-looking, brown, knee-high boots with the laces crossing back and forth over his shins.

Figuring that he had stared long enough, and not wanting to alarm the good Samaritan who might very well have saved Mr. Miller's life, Roy stepped out from behind the barn and cleared his throat.

"Uh, 'scuse me."

The man glanced up from his work, and he looked a little wary, but not particularly surprised to have company. He was young with high, prominent cheekbones, a long nose that was just the faintest bit crooked from having been broken at some point in the past, and dark, piercing, brown eyes. Those eyes narrowed at him now, taking on a challenging glint, as though he was expecting Roy to question his presence, or to tell him to leave.

Roy realized suddenly why he might be inclined to expect such a thing - Indians weren't often looked on kindly in these parts*, and this man seemed to be at least half Indian, judging by the manner of his dress and the rich undertone of his skin.

His mind raced as he tried to find a way to assure the man that he didn't want him gone. Just the opposite - he was glad to have his help.

"My name is Roy DeSoto," he began, "and I work for Doc Brackett. Mr. Miller's son, Jacob, came to the clinic to get help for his pa."

"And where is Doc Brackett?" the other man asked.

"With another patient. Nurse Dixie, too."

To his surprise, the other man snorted faintly, though there was no malice in it, just a wry, almost sad amusement. "Bad day to get hurt in Mud Springs, I guess."

Roy's lips quirked. "You could say that. Can I ask your name?"

The other man studied him for a moment, as if he was trying to decide whether or not he actually wanted to answer that.

"John Gage," he said at last.

"It's nice to meet you, Mr. Gage, though I wish it were under better circumstances." He waved a hand at Mr. Miller's prone form. "I brought some supplies with me. Do you mind if I take a look at him along with you?"

Mr. Gage's eyebrows rose faintly at that, but he shrugged after a moment, and Roy stepped closer, also crouching down beside the injured man.

Mr. Miller had a stout build with a head of reddish-brown hair and a beard to match. He wore a simple green shirt and brown pants, though Gage had ripped the right leg of those pants up to the knee in order to get better access to the wound. Miller had indeed bled pretty badly, judging by his pallor and the tell-tale red tint now infusing the soil around the injured limb, but Gage had a large, blue bandana tied around wound, and the bleeding had slowed significantly. Roy reached up to take the man's pulse and check his breathing. Both were fast, likely from the blood loss, but they were steady, and overall, his condition was much better than Roy had expected it to be. It was still serious, but he was stable enough that time was no longer as much of a concern. He glanced at the leg again and caught a glimpse of something green sticking out from beneath the makeshift-bandage.

"What did you use to treat this?" Roy asked.

Gage eyed him again, but apparently hearing nothing but honest curiosity in his voice, Gage answered, "Yarrow.* He's lucky - I was riding back home after picking a fresh batch when I found him. I broke it into pieces and spread it over the wound, then kept pressure on it until the bleeding slowed. I had just finished bandaging it when you came by."

Roy nodded. "I've read about yarrow. The Doc has a book about natural remedies in his library."

" _Natural Remedies of the Western Frontier*_ ," Gage recited.

Now, it was Roy's turn to look at him in surprise.

Gage smirked. "I've got a copy. Cost me a pretty penny, but it's come in handy a few times."

Roy could believe that it had.

He looked over the leg again. The bandana was large and covered the wound, but Roy was worried that it wouldn't be enough to hold the wound closed when they got Mr. Miller to the wagon. He reached into the saddle bag he was carrying and pulled out some fresh roles of linen.

Gage seemed to know what he was planning without needing to ask, because he carefully lifted Mr. Miller's leg off the ground so that Roy could wrap the extra bandaging around it. When the first layer was in place, he pulled out the boards he'd brought with him for a splint and put them along each side of Mr. Miller's leg, honestly grateful that he'd watched Dixie do the same thing just a short while before. Yet again, Gage understood his intent, and took to holding the boards while Roy started on another layer of bandages to anchor the splint in place.

When they were done, Roy leaned back to examine their work, and once he was satisfied, he reached into the saddle bag again and found the rag he'd originally brought for the Chloroform. He held that out to Gage along with the canteen.

"So you can wash you hands," he offered.

Gage looked down at his hands which were bright red with drying blood, and he accepted the rag and the canteen gratefully.

Roy's own hands were much cleaner, since the bulk of the bandaging had already been done before he arrived, so he pushed himself up from the ground and motioned in the direction of the house.

"I have a buckboard out front. If you give me a minute, I'll pull it around, and then we can get him up into the bed."

Gage nodded, and Roy hurried to get the wagon.

Gage was finished cleaning up by the time he returned, and together, they lifted Mr. Miller into the wagon bed, Roy taking his shoulders and Gage holding his feet. Miller moaned lowly at the change in position, but he didn't wake. Once they had him settled, Roy reached into the saddle bag again, retrieving the light blankets he'd brought. He draped them over Miller carefully, tucking them around his body while being especially careful of his leg.

When that was done, Roy shut up the back of the wagon, latching the board in place, then turned to Gage, who returned the canteen. Roy accepted it, slinging the strap over his shoulder.

"Thank you for your help," Roy told him. "I don't think he would have made it without you, and you made my job a lot easier. I'm sure the doc and Dixie will both agree."

"I was just doin' what's right," Gage said with a shrug. "Tell 'em that for me, would you?"

"You're not coming back to the clinic with me?" Roy asked in surprise.

Gage shook his head. "I doubt that Miller will want me around."

"Why?" Roy asked, honestly baffled. "You probably saved his life!"

Gage smiled sadly. "My homestead's not too far from here, and I know Miller. The only reason I was able to treat him is because he's unconscious. If he'd been awake, chances are that he wouldn't have let me anywhere near him."

"But that doesn't make any sense!"

"Well, it sure makes sense to a lot of folks around here," Gage returned darkly.

Roy's fists clenched at his sides, and he looked away, feeling something like bitterness rising up in his own chest…indignation on behalf of this man who'd gone out of his way to help someone who apparently hated him.

"I'm sorry," he said, though the words felt hollow on his tongue.

Gage sighed, taking off his hat briefly to run his hand through his hair. He replaced the hat a moment later, straightening it with a quick pull of the brim. "Not your fault. You don't seem to agree with them."

"I don't," Roy assured.

Gage smiled at that, then turned on his heel, heading for a tree that was a short distance away. Roy realized that he'd had been so focused on his patient that he hadn't noticed the dapple gray horse waiting beside that tree, its reins hooked over a low branch. It wore no saddle, only a simple blanket, but it had a beautifully woven bridle, and small beads were woven into a few stands of its mane. Near its feet, at the base of the tree, Roy caught sight of a coil of rope and a gunny sack that was stuffed with yellow yarrow flowers.

Gage freed the reins from the branch, then reached down to pick up the rope and the sack, using the rope to fasten the sack in place around his horse, just behind its shoulders. His deft movements suggested he'd done something similar many times before. After giving the rope a few, quick tugs to ensure that it would hold, he led the horse a few feet away from the tree and swung himself up onto its back with a light, effortless jump that would have made him the envy of many a horseman.

Seeing that the man intended to leave, Roy tipped his hat in farewell.

"It was nice to meet you, Mr. Gage."

Gage smiled again, tipping his own hat in response. "You know," he said, turning his horse around with a gentle tug of his reins, "most of my friends call me Johnny."

Then, with a nudge of his heels, he sent his horse into an easy canter. The horse's long strides carried him quickly across the Miller farm and back out into the open prairie, and Roy watched him, deep in thought, until his silhouette was no longer visible on the horizon.

**TBC**

* * *

Historical and Content Notes

**Brackett's level of expertise" - How Doctors were trained in the Old West** : In the Old West, there were "three methods in which a person could become a doctor," and these included, "[Attending] medical school, [apprenticing] under a knowledgeable doctor, or [purchasing] a diploma from a diploma mill." The latter, especially, could lead to "doctors" who did more harm than good, though a number of qualified physicians were trained under the apprenticeship method. The concept of training doctors through medical schools, however, gained popularity over time. For instance, "In 1850, there were approximately forty medical schools in the United States. That number swelled to more than sixty by 1876." (Source: hhhistory (d o t) c o m, "Becoming A Doctor In the Old West.")

" **Prepared to defend himself"** : As I mentioned in my previous notes, San Dimas, California - once Mud Springs - is located near San Dimas canyon, and, "For many years, it was commonly accepted that the name "San Dimas" was given to the canyon by Don Ignacio Palomares because of the practice of horse thieves hiding their booty there. It was said that, in exasperation, the Don made reference to St. Dismas, the crucified, repentant thief on the Cross, and wished that the horse thieves would also repent and stop the depredations of his livestock." This is no longer believed to the case, as it now appears that Palomares named the canyon after his old hometown, San Dimas, Mexico. (Source: sandimaschamber (d o t) c o m, "Points of Interest.") However, horse thieves were nonetheless a problem throughout the Old West, so it wasn't unreasonable for a man to be cautious about them, since "being left afoot could be fatal." (Source: truewestmagazine (d o t) c o m, "Was horse theft a capital offense during the Old West era?")

 **"An excellent shot"** : As you probably know, Robert Fuller, who of course played Dr. Brackett, starred in many westerns, and has a deep love for the Old West and Western culture. Especially in his younger days, he was in fact an excellent shot and a quick draw, so I couldn't resist incorporating that into Brackett's character here. I also think it would be a logical choice for Brackett, since - if he ever would need to use his weapon to defend himself - a good shot is far less likely to do serious damage to an opponent, while an amateur would have less control over where and how they shot someone.

 **Native Americans in California during the Civil War period** : Native Americans suffered greatly in California - as they did, sadly, elsewhere in the U.S. - facing terrible discrimination and abuse from both the government and from private citizens. The period between the Mexican-American War and the Civil War was particularly tumultuous. (Source: nps (d o t) g o v, "A History of American Indians in California: 1849-1879.")

 **Yarrow** : Yarrow is a "highly effective blood-stopping agent," and it was used by both physicians and Native Americans during the Civil War era. (Source: heirloom gardener (d o t) c o m, "Medicines of the Civil War.")

 **Natural Remedies of the Western Frontier** : As far as I am aware, there wasn't actually a book by this title, but there was extensive interest in medical remedies derived from plants during the Civil War period, particularly in the South, where medicines were harder to manufacture than in the North, though the North also did research into natural remedies. (Source: civilwarscholars (d o t) c o m, "North-South Medicine Compared – George Wunderlich.")

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, the next chapter should be up in a few days. :) 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, and please let me know what you think! 
> 
> Take care and God bless!
> 
> -Laughter


	3. An Ounce of Prevention

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to offer my sincere thanks to everyone who has been reading, and especially everyone who is leaving kudos and reviewing! It means so much to know that you're enjoying the fic, and I really can't tell you how much I appreciate your feedback.
> 
> As always, I thank my Lord Jesus Christ for his incredible mercy and grace and his many blessings. I would be utterly lost without him. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy this, and please let me know what you think!

** Frontier Medicine **

Chapter 3: An Ounce of Prevention

After a week-long stay in the clinic, Brackett had cleared Jed Miller to return home. Old Mrs. Winthrop, Miller's neighbor and a widow well into her fifties, had volunteered to stay with him while he finished his lengthy recovery, offering her services as a cook, a housekeeper, and a caregiver, calling it her Christian duty. Mrs. Winthrop's late husband had been a rancher, and she was no stranger to wound care, though Dixie had been careful to remind her of the signs to look for should Miller's healing wound start to cause him trouble, and Brackett planned to stop by periodically to check on him.

Roy had honestly been glad to see Miller go.

He seemed friendly enough, and he'd thanked Roy profusely the first chance he got, but when Roy told him who really deserved his gratitude, his mouth had pressed into a hard, thin line and he'd given a curt nod, and that was it. His reaction had been the same any time Gage's name was mentioned, even after Brackett had explained how fortunate he was that Gage had used yarrow to stop the bleeding.

Surely, Roy thought, even if Miller couldn't take a liking to every Indian who walked the plains, he might have at least acknowledged the man who'd saved his life.

He hadn't, however, and Roy knew that if Gage's actions couldn't change Miller's mind, then nothing Roy could say to him on the subject would matter either.

So, Roy had avoided Miller whenever possible…though, unfortunately, that meant spending a little more time with Mr. Ames who was somehow even less agreeable when he was sober than he was when he was drunk. Thankfully, his broken leg was mending well, and he would be leaving the clinic soon himself. (Brackett had decided to keep him for a few days longer than Miller, since he didn't trust Ames to be responsible for himself. Mrs. Hilliard, the owner of the boardinghouse, had agreed to move Ames to a room on the first floor, and she'd also promised to look after him while he healed in exchange for a raise in his rent. But, she had a business to run, and she couldn't watch Ames every minute.)

By and large, for the duration of Ames's and Miller's stays at the clinic, Roy had preferred riding on the wagon with Brackett, seeing to new patients, or checking up on Agnes, Essie's mother. The chest pains had eased, thankfully, and the older woman was doing fine, though Brackett had ordered several days of bed rest followed by a lighter workload overall. Agnes herself had been less than thrilled by the prospect, but Essie promised that she would make sure her mother followed the doctor's instructions, even if she had to tie her to the bed to do it.

Roy smiled at the memory, though the smile faded as he thought about how busy the week had been. Along with the three patients who'd needed continuing care, there'd been a man gored by a bull, a woman who'd been stung by a scorpion, a little boy who'd eaten some poisonous berries, and an older girl who'd burned her arm on a cook-stove.

Things had been made even more hectic by the fact that after his treatment of Miller, Brackett had finally deemed it safe for Roy to begin helping some of the less serious patients - with supervision, of course. Brackett had still refrained from saying the their arrangement was going to be a permanent one, but it was a welcome step forward. Roy just wished that it had felt a little bit less like a trial by fire.

He wasn't the only one feeling the effects of such a long week, though. Dixie and Brackett had been staying in one of the clinic's spare rooms while caring for Miller and Ames, and it showed. Dixie had tell-tale dark circles around her eyes, and Brackett looked tired and worn, his face a little pale.

Not that the doctor would ever admit to being at anything less than his best.

Roy snorted softly at that, then leaned over the bed once more, tucking in the corner of the sheet before laying a blanket over the top. Dixie had asked him to change the bedding while she took Ames outside to practice with a pair of crutches, and Roy was nearly finished.

"Hey, Roy?"

He glanced up to see Brackett standing in the doorway, so he gave the blanket one last tug, then stood up straight.

"Yeah, Doc?"

"I just talked to Dixie, and we've decided to close the clinic early today. Dixie and I will be staying here with Ames, but we don't have any appointments scheduled, and anything that isn't an emergency can wait."

Roy hid a grin - that, he supposed, was as close as Brackett would ever come to owning up to his exhaustion.

"Sounds good, Doc. Would you like some help with the shutters?"

Brackett accepted the offer gratefully, and together, they made short work of the shutters, then headed outside to hang the "Closed" sign on the door. Brackett had just finished when Dixie came around the corner of the building with Ames.

Ames was doing surprisingly well on those crutches - though, Roy realized, as often as the man drank, he probably had a lot of practice making his way around when his balance was less than ideal. Then again, that practice apparently hadn't done him much good where stairs were concerned.

As if hearing Roy's thoughts, Ames grumbled something under his breath, giving Roy a dirty look before Dixie opened the door for him and they both went back inside the clinic. Already used to Ames's cheerful disposition, Roy paid him no mind and opened the door again, holding it for Brackett and then following the doc inside.

Roy could hear Dixie getting Ames re-settled in the next room, and after making sure she didn't need any help, Roy walked over to coat rack, putting on his jacket and picking up his hat.

"You planning to head home, Roy?" Brackett asked.

Roy shook his head and put on his hat, tugging on the brim. "Not yet. Joanne mentioned that we're out of coffee, so I think I'll pick some up. It'll save us a trip later. Might as well get some penny candy* for the children while I'm at it."

Brackett smiled. "Get some for yourself, too. After this week, I'd say you've earned it."

Roy laughed. "I think we all have. Thanks, Doc. See you tomorrow."

"See you tomorrow, Roy."

Roy glanced at his rifle which was leaning up against Brackett's desk. Deciding that he would come back for it later, he called his farewell to Dixie and waved at the doc once more, letting them know he'd return for his gun, then he left the clinic and turned up the boardwalk, heading towards the General Store.

The late afternoon sun hung low in the sky, and a faint breeze was blowing, making Roy grateful for the jacket he wore as the temperature started to drop.

He tipped his hat to a group of women walking by, a couple of whom he recognized from visits he'd made with Brackett, but then he stopped as he recognized another familiar figure leaning up against the railing in front of the barbershop, a silver badge glinting faintly on the tan frock coat he wore. Roy smiled and headed over to say hello.

Brackett had introduced him to Sheriff Hank Stanley shortly after he and his family arrived in town. The sheriff had welcomed the DeSotos warmly, promising his assistance should they ever need it, though Roy hadn't gotten the chance to speak to the lawman again until a few days ago.

Stanley's oldest daughter, Allison, had actually been the one to burn her arm on the cook stove. The burn had been serious but not terribly deep, and Stanley's wife, Emily, had done a good job of treating her already. But, Sheriff Stanley and his wife were obviously unwilling to take any chances with their daughter, and the sheriff had brought Allison to the clinic, asking Brackett to check her over, just in case.

After they'd assured the worried father that his daughter really would be alright, Roy had helped Brackett change the dressing on the girl's arm. Sheriff Stanley had watched him work, asking questions about Roy's new position with a curious, almost eager air. He'd showed none of the uncertainty that most of the folks in town had, and Roy guessed that as sheriff, Stanley probably realized how much Brackett and Dixie needed an extra hand.

Beyond his much appreciated show of support, the sheriff had proven to be just as easy-going and affable as he'd seemed on their first meeting, though there could be no doubt that he was also every inch a lawman. Something about the way he carried himself just made him the sort of man that people would look to in an emergency. Roy hadn't been at all surprised to learn that the sheriff had been a Union Captain during the war, and he was willing to bet that Stanley had been just as respected by the men under his command as he was by the townspeople he now served.

Brackett had told Roy that he'd never seen Sheriff Stanley lose his head in a crisis. (The only time the doc could ever recall seeing him flustered was when the town had received a visit from a Marshall McConnike. Apparently, the sheriff knew McConnike from his Army days, McConnike having been the sheriff's commanding officer for a time. But Brackett assured him that Sheriff Stanley had been just fine as soon as the Marshall left.)

It was certainly difficult to imagine the sheriff being flustered now. As Roy approached, he was leaning against the end of the barbershop's hitching post, his hands resting on the wooden pole behind him. He was a lean but solid-looking man who was even taller than Roy himself, and though he was slouching a little now, he still towered over most of the people who were passing him on the street.

He wore a black Gambler hat, with its slightly narrowed, upturned brim and lower profile, and his tan frock coat fell to his knees, perhaps just a bit higher than it would have on someone of a shorter stature. Beneath his coat, he wore dark brown trousers and a matching, dark brown vest with a white shirt, a black string tie, and black boots. The gold chain from a pocket watch hung across the buttons from his vest, a little above his waistline, glinting in the sunlight like the badge that rested higher on his chest, over his heart. A brown, hand-tooled gunbelt hung over his hips, a little lower than most would have it, the gun resting on his right leg.

Sheriff Stanley turned at the sound of Roy's footsteps on the wooden planks, and he immediately broke into a smile.

"Well, howdy, Roy."

"Howdy, Sheriff." Roy stepped down from the boardwalk and leaned against the hitching post with the sheriff. "How's Allison?"

"She's doing just fine, thank you."

"I'm glad to hear it."

"How about your family?"

"They're doing well. My children seem to like it here."

It was a relief to say that now - it had been one of Roy's biggest worries when they'd left Pennsylvania. Joanne had assured him that she would follow him anywhere, that she would be alright as long as they were together, and he believed her. He knew how strong his wife was…how strong she had been during the war. But he'd hated the thought of uprooting his children from all they'd ever known.

Hearing their laughter and seeing their smiles had certainly gone a long way to making Mud Springs feel like home, and their schooling had helped with that even more. Since they'd reached the town in the middle of August, school had begun just a couple weeks after they'd arrived. Chris and Jennifer both liked their new teacher, and it hadn't been long before they'd been asking if they could invite their new friends over to play.

"And what about you and your wife?" the sheriff asked. "Do you like it here?"

Roy grinned. "It's growing on us, I suppose."

Stanley laughed. "That's something, at least."

Roy was about to ask after the sheriff's own wife and his younger daughter, but movement a little up the street caught his eye, and he glanced that way instead.

He recognized John Gage immediately. He was walking up the boardwalk, opposite of where Roy and the sheriff stood, and he was dressed much as he had been the week before, with the same brown Stetson and the same tan, leather jacket and beaded arm band. He was headed towards the saloon, but just as he neared the entrance, three men exited through the batwing doors. The one in the lead - a weathered-looking cowboy with a gray, wide brimmed hat, a sparse, brown beard, and hard blue eyes - sneered as soon as he caught sight of Gage.

"Well, well, well, if it ain't the injun."

He wasn't speaking loudly - his words barely carried to Roy - but Gage clearly heard him.

He stopped walking, his eyes narrowed faintly, his fists curling at his sides, but there was something almost resigned about the way he held himself that suggested this wasn't his first encounter with the man who'd spoken.

"Lane," he said simply, his voice hard.

"Planning on gettin' yourself some firewater, huh?" the man pressed.

"Get out of my way, Lane."

"Ooh, I think we made him mad. Better hang onto your hair, boys, he might just scalp ya."

The two men behind Lane - one stocky, dark-haired, and beardless, the other reedy with light blond hair - both laughed.

Roy started walking across the street before he even made the conscious choice to move, but Sheriff Stanley caught him by the arm almost immediately.

"Easy, Roy. Mike's got it."

Roy blinked, and glanced a little farther down the street. Sure enough, the sheriff had seen what he hadn't: Deputy Stoker was already heading for the three men, the spurs on his boots jingly faintly as he walked, his stride unhurried but purposeful as he moved up the boardwalk.

Roy felt a little of the tension ease from his shoulders. He'd only met Stoker once - Brackett had introduced him and the sheriff both - but he'd seemed as friendly, even if he used words sparingly, and his quiet, almost studious manner wasn't what Roy would have expected from a lawman. But, then again, the man's eyes seemed to be always moving, observing everything, and that was probably a valuable trait in a man charged with keeping the peace.

Stoker was a little bit shorter than the sheriff, about Roy's size, but he was still easily one of the taller men in the area, and he was broader than Stanley, the dark gray duster he wore only emphasizing that fact. Beneath the duster was a burgundy vest and a white shirt that buttoned to the collar. His trousers were a light brown, and he had on black riding boots that reached to just below his knees. Like Stanley, he wore a black Gambler hat, though his was slightly wider in the brim, and a black, satin ribbon served as a hat band. The gunbelt slung across his hips was also black, and the silver butt of a gun peered out from the holster on his right leg, matching the silver badge pinned to his coat.

He stopped moving just behind the three men who'd been harassing Gage, his hands resting lightly on his gun belt.

"Is there a problem here?" he asked.

His voice was mild, but the three men seemed to shrink back a little.

Lane glanced at Gage one last time before he answered.

"Nah, sir, no problem. We don't want no trouble."

"Then I suggest you gentlemen move along," the lawman returned simply.

None of the men argued, but they did make an obvious point of stepping down from the boardwalk and giving Gage a wide berth, as if they didn't want to be too near. The dirty looks they gave him as they passed certainly seemed to say that much.

Gage, however, looked right at the deputy, his expression angry.

"Maybe I've scouted for you and the sheriff a few times, but that doesn't mean I want any special treatment!" he snapped.

The deputy didn't seem bothered by his attitude.

"And you won't have any," he assured. "I would have gotten involved regardless of who they'd started in on. It just happened to be you this time, John."

Gage stared at Stoker for a moment, and gradually, his anger seemed to fade.

"Thanks, Mike," he said more quietly.

Stoker just smiled and gave Gage a friendly clap on the shoulder before he, too, stepped down from the boardwalk and set out down the street again, continuing his rounds.

"John never likes it when we make a fuss on his behalf," the sheriff explained.

Roy blinked, turning once again to face the senior lawman.

"That's why I let Mike handle it," he continued. "Deputies tend to draw a little less attention than sheriffs do." Stanley's lips quirked. "And I guess you could say that Mike has a talent for keeping things quiet."

Roy thought about that for a moment, then nodded, looking over his shoulder and catching sight of Gage again just as he entered the saloon.

"Gage has scouted for you?" Roy asked.

The sheriff nodded. "He's an excellent tracker, and I don't think there's an inch of land around here that he doesn't know."

"Seems like a good man to have on your side," Roy murmured, the beginnings of a half-formed idea solidifying a little more in his mind.

"He is. I just wish more folks around here would see it. Unfortunately, that homestead of his doesn't help matters any."

Roy frowned. He remembered Gage mentioning that his homestead wasn't far from Miller's farm, but he couldn't imagine why that might be a problem. "What do you mean?"

"He's got himself some land a couple miles from here. Not a big spread, but it's his. Got it through the Homestead Act* - paid the fee for it, built a house, tilled the land, and held out for the five years he needed to earn the deed. Not too many others can say they did the same. Those were some awful lean years, and with the war on top of it…" Stanley sighed. "A lot of people around here don't take too kindly to the idea that a half-Indian succeeded where so many others failed."

Roy stared at the sheriff for a moment, then shook his head. He couldn't say that he was really surprised. He'd seen attitudes like that during the war. A Negro soldier in the North wasn't necessarily welcomed by other Union troops, even if he did wear the right uniform, and if a Negro solider proved himself on the battlefield, he was likely to be either ignored or resented by his white counterparts. Gage seemed to be facing a similar problem.

"That's ridiculous," Roy said quietly.

"I agree, believe me," the sheriff answered, "but I can only uphold the law. I can't tell people what to think, no matter how much I'd like to." The sheriff sighed again, then pushed himself away from the hitching post. "Well, Roy, it's my turn to make the rounds around town, so I'd better go relieve Mike. I hope you have a good evening."

Roy managed another smile. "Thanks, Sheriff. You too."

The lawman smiled in return, then headed down the street in search of his deputy.

Roy watched the sheriff leave before he glanced over at the saloon, frowning in thought. It only took him a minute to decide.

The trip to the General Store could wait. He wanted to talk to John Gage first.

**TBC**

* * *

Historical and Content Notes

**Penny Candy** : Penny candy was inexpensive candy that could be purchased at trading posts or general stores. Interestingly, "By the mid-1800s candy in the old west was manufactured by over 380 American factories. Most were producing primarily 'penny candy,' which was sold loose from glass cases in general stores." It's amazing how far back many present-day brands and candy types actually go, such as Whitman's chocolate (1854), Cadbury (1868), candy corn (1880s), and Wrigley's Juicy Fruit gum and Wrigley's Spearmint gum (1893). For a full list of dates, please see the site where I found this information. (Source: kids-n-cowboys (d o t) c o m, "Candy in the Old West.")

 **The Homestead Act** :The Homestead Act was "[s]igned into law by President Abraham Lincoln on May 20, 1862." It "encouraged Western migration by providing settlers 160 acres of public land. In exchange, homesteaders paid a small filing fee and were required to complete five years of continuous residence before receiving ownership of the land. After six months of residency, homesteaders also had the option of purchasing the land from the government for $1.25 per acre. The Homestead Act led to the distribution of 80 million acres of public land by 1900." (Source: loc (d o t) g o v, "Primary Documents in American History: Homestead Act.")

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, the next chapter should, Lord willing, be up in a few days. :) 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, and please let me know what you think! 
> 
> Take care and God bless!
> 
> -Laughter


	4. Panacea

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: When I was researching Old West clothing initially, I found a wonderful site called the "Historical Emporium," and I have to give it a plug here. It sells all sorts of period-accurate clothing and accessories, with a large selection for the Old West, and it was an immense help when I needed inspiration for the clothing that the characters are wearing in this fic. It's a lot of fun just to browse the site. :) If you want to check it out, the address is w-w-w (d o t) historicalemporium (d o t) c o m. (Just fix the extra characters and remove the spaces).

** Frontier Medicine **

Chapter 4: Panacea

The light inside the saloon was dim, and Roy stood on the threshold for a moment, holding open the batwing doors*, trying to let his eyes adjust. When they did, he saw a large room lined entirely with dark wood. The bar was on the left side of the room, accented by tall, thin wooden posts that stood a few feet away from it, creating an open sort of hallway. Each post was drilled into a much larger wooden beam that merged with the smooth, wooden planks of the ceiling.

There was some natural light streaming in from the large windows on either side of the doorway where Roy stood, but the rest of the space was lit by a set of three large chandeliers. One was hung over the bar, while another hung over the middle of the saloon where wooden tables of every shape and size were clustered together with just enough room to walk by. Some of those tables were already claimed by cowhands and merchants who'd finished their work for the day and wanted to unwind, though many tables were still empty - evidence of the relatively early hour, Roy guessed.

The third chandelier was hanging over a large poker table on the right side of the room. The poker table was the busiest spot, with a game already in progress and a large group of men gathered around it. Those who were seated at the table wore expressions of deep concentration, while those who were standing by the table seemed more relaxed, content just to watch.

At the back of the saloon, in a far corner also on the right, there was a wooden staircase leading up to a second floor, and Roy remembered hearing that the saloon offered some rooms for rent up there. (No working women were present in the saloon, which fit with something else Roy had heard - this was a respectable place, not the sort with an upstairs that might be used for something other than lodging.*)

Overall, the air smelled of cigar smoke and cheap whiskey, and it was filled with the sound of conversation, the chinking of poker chips, the clinking of glasses, and the creaking of wooden chairs and floor boards.

Roy let his eyes sweep over the crowd, and it didn't take him long to spot Gage - the eagle feathers tucked into his hatband were pretty distinctive. He was seated at a small table near the back with two other men. Three nearly-empty mugs rested on the table in front of them, though right now, they seemed more interested in talking than drinking.

From what Roy could see, one of the men with Gage was dressed in a plaid blue and tan vest with a white shirt and a dark brown bowtie. A black bowler hat sat crookedly on a head of brown, curly hair, and he had a thick mustache that curved up slightly at the ends. His pale skin had a slightly rosy hue, as though it had never quite adapted to the strong, western sun, and he held a cigar between the first and middle fingers of his right hand, gesturing with it as he spoke.

The other man - a Mexican, judging by his looks - was watching the curly haired one with an expression somewhere between amusement and exasperation. He had black hair, a black mustache, and richly tanned skin, and he wore a loose, faded red shirt with a green bandanna tied around his neck. A wide-brimmed straw hat sat atop his head, and dark blue serape was folded and draped at an angle across his chest, bold, beige lines marking the fabric. He was sitting closer to the entrance than Gage or the other man, and from this angle, Roy could see that he was wearing brown trousers and brown leather chaps.

Gage, too, was watching the curly haired man, though his expression bore less amusement and more annoyance.

Hoping that he wasn't making a mistake by approaching Gage now, Roy started forward, headed right for the table where the three men sat. They all turned to look at him as soon as he was close enough for them to hear his approach over the din of the saloon.

"Kin I help ya, sir?" the curly-haired man asked.

The lilting words made Roy hesitate. It wasn't the thick, Irish brogue that brought him up short, but the tone in which the question was delivered. It wasn't exactly unfriendly, but not particularly welcoming either.

Roy was about to apologize for bothering them when Gage spoke.

"Ease off, Chet. I know him."

"But do I want ta know 'im too?"

"Chet!"

"What? Tis' a fair question, ya know."

The Mexican rolled his eyes, then looked over at Roy. "Don't mind him, señor."

"Aye, pay me no mind," the Irishman chimed in. "Me father took me ta kiss the blarney stone* when I was a lad, and me mother says it took too well."

"Blarney, huh?" Gage retorted wryly. "That's not the only thing you're full of, Chet."

He shook his head, then looked back to Roy and smiled, waving a hand at the only remaining chair at their table. "Have a seat," he offered.

Roy smiled in return and did so.

"Mr. Gage-" he started.

"Johnny," the other man insisted, interrupting him. "Or John, if you prefer. And this is Marco Lopez."

The Mexican man smiled and gave a brief nod of greeting. "Hola."

"As you've probably guessed," Gage added, "the one with all the blarney over there is Chester Kelley."

The Irishman stuck out a hand. "Call me Chet, sir. And you are…?"

Roy returned the handshake. "Roy DeSoto. You can call me Roy."

"DeSoto…" Chet repeated thoughtfully. "Oh, so  _you're_  the doc's assistant we been hearin' all about."

Roy smiled, amused in spite of himself. He supposed everyone in Mud Springs knew about him at this point. "That's me. What is it that you do?"

"We are vaqueros," Marco answered. "Ranch hands. We work for Señor Cabrero."

"He owns the ranch on the west side of town, doesn't he?" Roy asked.

"Sí. He increased the size of his herd last spring, and he needed to hire more men. My cousin is his foreman. He put in a good word for us."

"And a right good word it was," Chet interjected. "I amn't sure where we'd be without it. Mining t'weren't gettin' us nowhere."

Roy leaned forward a little, even more curious now. "You were miners?"

"Aye, up in the Montana Territory, if ya can believe it*. Small world, I guess, since Johnny hails from there too, though we di' not meet him 'till we moved to Mud Springs." Chet nodded at Johnny, then gave Marco a friendly slap on the back. "Marco here had a claim next ta mine. We got ta be friends by and by, and decided ta pool our resources…fer all the good it did. Never did find that pot'a gold. But, when Marco's cousin wrote him about working for Cabrero, he invited me along, so 'ere I am."

Marco smirked. "Sí, I invited him," he admitted wryly. "But don't hold it against me, por favor. I was sick then, you see. Muy enfermo. Didn't know what I was doing."

"So, that's how it happened," Johnny said. "I'd wondered."

Roy couldn't quite stifle his grin in time.

"Oh, a real riot ye lot are," the Irishman griped, glaring.

Johnny and Marco shared an amused look before Johnny caught Roy's eye.

"What about you?" he asked. "How exactly did you wind up all the way out here, working for Brackett?"

Roy gave a small shrug. "Nurse Dixie spent some time at a few different field hospitals during the war. I met her at Chattanooga."

"You fought in the war?" Marco asked.

"In a manner of speaking. I was assigned to the ambulance wagons."

"Getting wounded men off the battlefield?" Johnny pressed.

There was a thoughtful frown on his face, and Roy hoped that boded well for what he had in mind.

He nodded. "Dixie figured that my experience out there might be of some use here. So, when she realized she and the doc needed a hand, she wrote to me and offered me the job."

That seemed to be enough to pull the Irishman back into the conversation. "Way I hear it," he said, "t'was Johnny who gave ya a hand the other day."

"He did," Roy confirmed, glancing over at Gage, glad the conversation had taken this sort of turn. "That's actually what I was hoping to talk to you about."

Johnny frowned again. "What about it?"

"Well," Roy began slowly, trying to find the right words, "Doc Brackett decided to hire me because there's just too much territory for him and Nurse Dixie to cover alone. And after the week we've had…I'm beginning to think that three people aren't enough either. But four…maybe we wouldn't be spread quite so thin. There's no guarantee, but if you're interested, I can talk to the doc and see if he'd consider hiring you too."

There was a long moment of silence as Gage stared at him.

So many expressions flitted over his face that Roy had a hard time reading them.

"You're serious," he said after a moment.

He sounded vaguely incredulous.

Roy nodded again. "I am. I saw how you handled Miller - you knew what you were doing. And all week long, Brackett was telling Miller how lucky he is that you used yarrow to treat that leg."

Gage gave a deliberate shrug that looked less casual than he probably meant for it to. "My mother was the daughter of a medicine man.* She taught me what she knew. And I've picked up what I can on my own."

"Even better," Roy said immediately. "We could use someone with that sort of background. The doc will still insist on training you formally, like he is me, but it will be a lot easier if you're not starting completely from scratch."

Gage stared at him for another long moment, then shook his head. "Thanks for the offer, but I don't think so."

Roy felt his high hopes drop like lead weights. "Why not?"

Gage sighed and leaned back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest. "Take a look around you."

Roy did, and realized for the first time that over the din of the bar, he could hear whispering too. It seemed he'd caused something of a stir by sitting down at this particular table, and he caught more than a few insults about the men he was with. The recent war with Mexico was still fresh in the minds of most people, and the feelings of resentment were strong. Most had no love for the Irish either, as Roy well knew. He'd seen enough "No Irish Need Apply*" signs back in Pennsylvania. But Johnny - Johnny who'd saved a man's life just the week before - was the biggest target for their scorn.

Johnny must have seen the realization on his face because he smirked bitterly.

"Do you really think anyone here would want my help?" he asked.

Roy opened his mouth to argue, but Johnny pushed his chair back and stood up abruptly.

He glanced over at his friends. "Look, thanks for the drink, Chet, Marco, but I need to head home. Got a few chores I want to finish before sundown. I'll pay for a round next time, alright?"

Marco frowned at the sudden pronouncement, but he nodded reluctantly. "Si, esta bien. See you soon, Johnny."

"Aye, see ya, Johnny," Chet echoed.

Johnny smiled tightly and looked over at Roy. "Nice talkin' with you again, Roy."

He turned and headed for the door before Roy could answer, and Roy twisted around in his chair, watching him go and trying desperately to find something to say. He wanted to apologize for bringing up such a sore subject, and more than that…he wanted another chance to make his case.

"We'll hold ya to yer word about that round!" the Irishmen called.

Johnny waved a hand in acknowledgement without looking back and then disappeared through the batwing doors. A murmur from the rest of the saloon followed in his wake.

There was a moment of awkward silence at the table as Roy turned back around to face the other two men, but it ended when Marco picked up his own nearly-empty glass and Chet's as well.

"Here," the Mexican man offered. " _I_  will buy the next round." He glanced over at Roy. "Care to join us, señor?"

"Um, no, thanks," Roy said, glancing once more in the direction Johnny had gone. "Maybe next time, though. It was nice to meet you."

"You too, señor," Marco smiled.

"Eh, yer alright," Chet allowed.

Roy scoffed softly at that, then pushed back his own chair and stood, tipping his hat in farewell before he left the saloon himself, scouring the boardwalks for any sign of Gage.

Gage must have been moving quickly, because by the time Roy spotted him, he had almost reached the telegraph office down the street. Roy broke into a jog, holding onto his hat as he did so, offering a quick apology to an older woman that he almost ran down in his haste.

Gage turned at the sound of Roy's heavy footsteps on the wooden planks. He didn't look particularly surprised to see him.

"You don't give up easily, do you?"

Roy smiled. "Can't say I've ever been accused of that, no." He paused. "I get the feeling we have that in common. That's why I thought it was worth another try."

Gage shook his head "Look, those people in the saloon - I've dealt with their kind my whole life, and I've learned to pick my battles. This is one battle I couldn't win. I appreciate it, I really do, but it wouldn't work. Even if the doc agreed to hire me on, most folks would take one look at me and turn me away in a minute flat." He smiled a bitter smile. "I know the basics of healing. I can look after myself when I have to, and maybe treat some others when I get the chance, and that's good enough for me. I just don't see a reason to spend weeks learning a bunch of new skills that I probably wouldn't be allowed to use."

Roy's brow furrowed, and he bit his lip as he searched for an answer.

"The sheriff told me that you know the land around here better than just about anyone else," he said at last. "Is that true?"

"It might be. Why?"

"Because if you know this area, then you've got to know what Brackett is facing. More people move here all the time, but most of them are spread out. I've seen it - it can take the doc from sunup to sundown just to get to one patient, treat them, and head back home. And that's on a good day. What happens when there's a whole lot of people who need help at once…help far beyond the home remedies most folks count on? Doc Early, all the way over in Victorville, is the only other doctor around. How long do you think it'd take him to get to Mud Springs? Besides, he has his own patients to worry about already, and who's to say he'd even be able to make it out here at all? That leaves Doc Brackett, Nurse Dixie, and me. Three people to treat who knows how many others."

Johnny looked at him sharply, grim understanding passing through his gaze.

"I know it wouldn't be easy," Roy continued. "But if there's any chance you could help…isn't it worth trying? When you saved Miller's life that day, you said it was the right thing to do. Well, that's what this is - the right thing to do."

Johnny stared at him for a long moment, then sighed, his eyes shifting towards the horizon where the sun was beginning to sink lower in the sky. Roy could see him wavering.

"At least think about it," Roy pressed. "You don't have to answer now. Tell you what - why don't you come over to my house for dinner in a couple days? My wife's a great cook."

He made a mental note to apologize to Joanne for inviting someone over without talking to her first, but he hoped his wife would understand why he'd done it.

"And even if you decide against letting me talk to the doc," Roy added, "you'd still be welcome."

There was another long moment of silence, and then Johnny looked back at him at last.

"Alright," he said quietly.

"'Alright,' you'll think about it, or 'alright,' you'll come over for dinner?" Roy asked.

"Both." Johnny smiled. "But no promises. And if I say no, you won't bring it up again. Agreed?"

"Agreed," Roy said, meaning it.

It wasn't quite the answer he'd hoped for, but it was better than the refusal he'd gotten earlier, and for now, he would take what he could get.

* * *

Three days later, John Gage was sitting at their kitchen table, and Roy was beginning to think that he had only accepted the invitation because of the food. He certainly ate like a man who hadn't seen a good meal in weeks. Though, Roy supposed, if Johnny was a bachelor, as he seemed to be, then Joanne's cooking might have been the best thing he'd had in a while. Still, if he ate this way all the time…where did he put it? There wasn't an ounce of fat on him.

One thing was for sure - Johnny's enthusiastic compliments about Joanne's cooking had certainly gone a long way toward winning her over.

It wasn't that his company had been unwanted - Joanne had been quick to accept the idea of having a relative stranger over for dinner. But, all the same, she hadn't seemed quite sure what to think when she'd met him. Johnny was, after all, not like the typical dinner guests they'd had back in Pennsylvania. As far as Roy was concerned, that was a good thing. (Some of the dinner guests they'd entertained had been friends with Joanne's mother, which said pretty much everything about the sort of guests they were.) Johnny was certainly a lot friendlier than they had been, and he'd brought a pouch of dried herbs with him as a gift for Joanne. She'd already started planning the meals she could make with them, and that, along with Johnny's obvious enjoyment of dinner, seemed to have erased any doubts she might have had.

"Would you like some more coffee, Johnny?" Joanne offered.

"Mm?" Johnny asked around a mouthful of food. His eyes widened a little in realization and he swallowed. "Oh, sure. Thanks!"

He held out his cup, and as soon as Joanne refilled it, he dug right back into his meal, scooping up a big helping of potatoes and taking a bite out of his biscuit.

"What kinds of foods do Indians eat most of the time, Mr. Gage?" Chris wondered.

"Christopher DeSoto!" Joanne scolded sharply. "That's not how you treat a guest!"

Johnny chewed a little more and smiled. "It's okay," he assured, swallowing.

"It depends on the tribe," he answered, looking over at Chris. "But for the most part, the food Indians eat isn't really all that different from what you and your folks eat. Meat, fish, vegetables, that sort of thing. My ma's tribe does a lot of farming."

"Your ma's tribe?" Chris asked curiously.

"My ma was Indian and my pa was white," Johnny explained. "My pa was a fur trapper up in what they call the Montana Territory now. He met my ma at a trading post."

"I bet she was real pretty," Jennifer interjected.

Johnny's smile turned wistful. "Yeah, she was."

Roy didn't miss the fact that he'd spoken in the past-tense.

"My ma is real pretty too!" Jennifer added.

The melancholy faded from Johnny's expression and he grinned. "She sure is." He glanced over at Roy. "Your pa is a lucky man."

Roy saw Joanne blush a little a the complement, and he reached over to lay his hand on top of hers. "He's right, I am."

He was pleased to see her blush deepen at his words.

"How did you two meet?" Johnny asked.

"We went to the same school back in Pennsylvania. Our teacher, Miss Whitaker, gave Joanne the seat in front of mine."

Joanne nodded wryly. "He dipped the end of my braid into his inkwell."

"Papa," Jennifer protested immediately, "that's mean!"

"Yes, it was," Joanne agreed.

"I've said I'm sorry."

"And I expect you to keep saying it," Joanne insisted primly, but there was a teasing sparkle in her eyes when she looked at him.

Roy smiled and gave her hand a squeeze, then, mindful of their audience, he looked over at his son. "Don't you ever do that to a girl, Chris."

"No, sir," he promised. "I won't."

Johnny was still grinning as he watched the exchange, though it wasn't long before he started in on his dinner again, and Roy let go of Joanne's hand to do the same.

The rest of the meal was filled with easy conversation, and when they'd finished, Roy had given Johnny a tour of the bunkhouse. There wasn't really all that much to see, even now that they had all of their belongings unpacked.

They just hadn't been able to take much with them. Most of the limited room in their wagon had been taken up by necessities, like their food and provisions, cooking utensils, and the heavy cast iron pots and pans that had seen a hundred cook fires over the course of their journey. A single, shared wardrobe had held nearly all of their clothing - and still did, in fact. It now took up the far wall at one end of the bunkhouse, opposite the kitchen.

Beyond that, they'd needed grain and extra shoes for the horses, along with ropes and chains to pull the wagon out should summer rains bog it down in muddy ground. Three axes, several good knives, two rifles, and a large supply of gunpowder had provided Roy with the means to hunt - or defend his family, if it came down to it, though thankfully, it hadn't. They'd made it across the country just fine.

Still, considering all they'd needed to carry, there hadn't been space for much else, and well, even if they'd had room in wagon to bring it, most of their furniture had been sold to help cover the cost of their trip. ("And what exactly do you plan to sit on when you get there? The floor?" Elaine, Joanne's mother, had demanded before they left. Roy could admit, at least in the privacy of his own thoughts, that while there were certainly things he would miss about Pennsylvania, his mother-in-law wasn't one of them.)

They had managed to take a few precious items with them, though. Roy had a picture of his father who had died when Roy was only eight, and he and Joanne had kept their wedding photo, along with the family photo they had all posed for last year, when the war had ended. Those photos were now displayed proudly on the mantle, above the fireplace.

In the corner, by their beds, sat Joanne's old hope chest, which held a quilt that her grandmother had made, along with her wedding dress and a few pieces of carefully-packed fine china that her mother had given to her years before. Roy's own trunk had a place near the door. It held the family Bible, his father's old woodworking tools, and his grandfather's pocket watch, which he planned to pass onto Chris when he was old enough.

Chris and Jennifer, for their parts, had each been allowed to pick a couple favorite toys to take with them. Jennifer had chosen her favorite doll and a small, wooden tea set Roy had made for her last birthday. Christopher had a set of tin soldiers, and a small sack of marbles. They had eagerly shown their treasures to Johnny, who'd examined them with an intense sort of scrutiny that seemed to delight both children, though Chris looked a little uncertain when Johnny handed the small figures back.

"Those are some fine soldiers you've got there," Johnny told him.

Chris ducked his head, his foot scuffing the wooden floorboards. "They're not really worth much, though," he admitted.

Johnny smiled. "Things don't have to be expensive to be valuable." He nodded towards the door, where his hat hung on a nearby hook. "You see those eagle feathers? I didn't pay a cent for 'em, but they mean the world to me."

"They do?"

Johnny nodded. "Eagle feathers have special meaning for my people.* The first one I got when I was born. The second one was given to me by a Sioux Chief about six years ago, when I was making my way out here to California. A little Sioux boy, about your age, lost his footing and fell into a ravine. I was close by when it happened, so I went over to see if I could do anything to help."

Chris's eyes were wide, and Jennifer clutched her doll a little tighter.

"And could you?" she asked.

"I could. The canyon wall was made of real loose rock, so they needed somebody light to climb down it."

"Wow!" Chris breathed.

"Thankfully, when I got to the boy, he was crying, but he was more frightened than anything. The Chief gave me the feather a few days later, a formal gift in front of the tribe."

Roy needed only to look at Johnny's face to be sure that this wasn't empty bragging, or a tall tale he'd made up for the sake of the children. He was more sure than ever that he'd made the right choice when he'd offered to talk to Brackett on Johnny's behalf.

Now, he just had to hope that Johnny felt the same way.

Roy had avoided the subject so far, wanting Johnny to know that he'd been serious about him being welcome no matter what. But Johnny had promised him an answer tonight, and Roy couldn't deny that he was curious to know what the other man had decided.

His opportunity came when Joanne had set about cleaning up. Guessing her husband's intentions, she'd asked the children to help her and shooed the men out to the porch.

The sun was setting, and the sky was lit up with streaks of red and gold. Over in the main house, warm light shown from the windows, and Roy had to admit he was glad to see that Brackett and Dixie were finally back from the clinic, Ames having been released that afternoon.

Gage walked to the edge of the porch, then leaned against one of the posts that supported the overhang. With his shoulders pressed against the wood, he tucked his hands inside the pockets of his jacket, and crossed one leg casually over the other.

"So, you're from Pennsylvania?" he asked.

Roy nodded, walking closer and leaning against the post opposite the other man. "Right around Harrisburg."

"That area got hit pretty hard by the war, didn't it?"

Roy nodded again. "Yeah. Yeah, it did. That's a big part of why I decided to leave. I needed a new start, and thankfully, Joanne understood that."

"Do you feel like you got it? A new start?"

"I do," Roy said honestly. "I like working for the doc. I think I can make a real difference for the people here." He paused, looking Johnny right in the eye. "I think you could make a real difference too."

Gage drew a deep breath of the evening air, then blew it out slowly.

"Okay," he said at last.

Roy looked at him sharply. "Okay? You'll let me talk to the doc?"

"I'll let you talk to the doc," he agreed.

Roy couldn't stop the smile that spread over his face. "You won't regret it," he promised.

Johnny smirked faintly and shook his head. "We'll see about that, partner."

 _Partner_ , Roy thought. He liked the sound of that.

**TBC**

* * *

Historical and Content Notes

**Batwing Doors:**  Historically speaking, "batwing doors" also called "café doors," were sometimes used in the Old West, but they weren't used as often as Hollywood would have us believe. In fact, "Most saloons…had actual doors. Even those with swinging doors often had another set on the outside, so the business could be locked up when closed and to shield the interior from bad weather." (Source: legendsofamerica (d o t) com, "Saloons of the American West.") I decided to go with the Hollywood version of batwing doors for this fic, because I just couldn't resist that classic look. :)

 **"Working Women" - Saloon Girls** : Saloon girls were common in the Old West, but there were saloons that wanted to be seen as "respectable," and so "banned them from their establishments." (Source: dailymail (d o t) co (d o t ) uk, "When the West was wild: Fascinating 19th century photographs reveal the brawl-heavy, liquor-filled world of cowboy saloons.")

 **The Blarney Stone** : The Blarney Stone is a stone located in a castle near Cork, Ireland. It appears that the "first known example of kissing the Blarney Stone," comes from 1796, and according to legend, it said that, "By kissing the stone, the kisser would get the gift of the gab, making them a persuasive flatterer." Reaching the stone itself is challenge, however, so "some slackers claimed to have kissed the Blarney Stone despite never having done so and would then boast profusely about it. Thus, to have kissed the Blarney Stone came to mean 'to tell wonderful tales' by 1848." There is, though, some debate about whether or not "blarney" was equated with "nonsense" even earlier than that. (Source: wordoriginstories (d o t) wordpress (d o t) c o m, "Blarney.")

 **Gold Strike in the Montana Territory**  - At the point this story is set, Marco and Chet would have been late for the California Gold Rush, which lasted from about 1848 to 1855. (Wikipedia.) But, mining continued in vary places throughout the West, and gold was discovered in Helena, Montana in 1864 (Wikipedia). To put it simply, "Word soon got out about the gold strike and, seemingly overnight, Helena became a boomtown. In just a few short years, several hundred businesses had opened up shop in Helena and more than 3000 people called Helena home. Moreover, many of the previous mining strikes in other mining areas of Montana were beginning to play out. As such, many of the miners in these areas gravitated towards Helena." (Source: bigskyfishing (d o t) c om, "The History of Helena, Montana.") In essence, people from all over the country, many with diverse racial backgrounds, were drawn to Helena. In fact, "Helena was one of the most ethnically diverse places in the West in the 1860s." (Source: montanapioneer (d o t) c o m, "Helena, Montana in the Old Days.") Montana itself, however, did not become a state until November 8, 1889. (Wikipedia.)

 **Medicine Men:**  In Native American Culture, a Medicine Man had many jobs within the tribe, including, "healer, communicator, educator, prophet and mystic." Moreover, "In many tribes, including the Cheyenne and the Sioux, the Medicine Man also had the role of the head warrior or war chief which made him the most influential man of the tribe." (Source: warpaths2peacepipes (d o t) c o m, "Native American Culture: Medicine Men.")

 **No Irish Need Apply** \- There is some debate about how widespread the slogan, "No Irish Need Apply" (or NINA) actually was in the United States. But, overall, evidence does seem to suggest that, regarding the Irish, there were "multiple instances of the restriction used in advertisements for many different types of positions." (Wikipedia.) In any case, there was quite a bit of anti-Irish sentiment during the mid-1800s. In fact, "In the 1850s anti-Irish prejudice took on a new dimension. Prior to this time the common belief was that despite their ignorance and brutishness, the Irish could become educated and civilized. In the 1850s the element of race entered the picture and it transformed the image of the Irish. The stereotype of the Irish as ignorant, brutal, and depraved was now said to be rooted in their very nature and no amount of education would cure this." (Source: www3 (d o t) nd (d o t) edu, "Anti-Irish Racism in the United States.")

 **Eagle Feathers**  - Eagle feathers have deep significance for many Native American tribes. Generally, "Eagle feathers are presented as symbols of honor and respect and have to be earned. Some communities give them to children when they become adults through special ceremonies, others present the feathers as a way of commemorating an act or event of deep significance." (Source: nativeappropriations (d o t) com, "Can't I Wear a Hipster Headdress?")

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Once again, the next chapter should, Lord willing, be up in a few days. :) 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, and please let me know what you think! 
> 
> Take care and God bless!
> 
> -Laughter


	5. Medicine Man

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: There are some very long historical and content notes at the end of this chapter, but this part of the story includes quite a bit of medical detail, and considering the differences between modern medicine and Civil War era medicine, I wanted offer as much information as I could. :)

** Frontier Medicine **

Chapter 5: Medicine Man

"I'm sorry, Roy, but you should have talked to me first."

Brackett's voice wasn't particularly loud, but there was no missing the note of displeasure in it.

They were in Brackett's study, and the doctor was seated behind his mahogany desk, his elbows braced against the arms of his chair, his fingers laced together in his lap.

Roy was sitting across from him, on the other side of the desk, his hat clutched in his hands, the brim curling under his fingers. He'd been so focused on talking to the doc before they left for the clinic this morning, that he'd forgotten to hang the hat up on the rack by the front door.

Maybe Brackett was right - maybe he  _should_ have talked to him before going to Johnny, but the truth was, he'd already known that the doctor wouldn't be easy to convince, and he'd wanted to make sure that Johnny was actually interested in the job before he tried to approach the doc.

"I didn't promise him anything," Roy assured. "I told him that I wasn't sure if you'd agree. But I hoped you would." Roy glanced down for a moment, then met Brackett's gaze squarely once more. "Doc, you've said it yourself - Miller would be dead right now if it wasn't for Johnny."

"That may be true, but saving one life doesn't necessarily mean you're qualified to save others."

"That's why I'm suggesting you train him too! I think he'd pick it up quickly. He's already got some training. His mother was the daughter of a medicine man, and he learned from her. Plus, he's kept studying on his own. He's got one of the same books you do."

He waved a hand at the wall of bookshelves for emphasis.

"That's admirable," the doctor offered, "but I still don't see a reason to hire him."

Roy stood up, tossing his hat onto the empty chair beside him. Then he leaned forward, bracing both hands on the desk. "Doc, whether you want to admit it or not, you need more help. The three of us just aren't enough. We barely got through last week."

"We managed," Brackett said tightly.

"We did," Roy agreed. "But what happens if things get worse? If there's an outbreak, an epidemic, or any one of a hundred different disasters? Sure, people will pull together like they always do, but you've taught me that sometimes people need more than just the support of their neighbors. They need people who know real medicine!"

Brackett considered that for a moment, then shook his head. "I'm just not convinced that hiring him is the right choice."

Roy's eyes narrowed.

"Because he's half-Indian?" he asked.

Brackett's expression turned thunderous, and suddenly, he was leaning forward too. "I couldn't care less what his heritage is! People are people! I've put enough of 'em back together to know that."

"Then what's the problem?"

"The problem is that I'm still not sure if I made the right choice by hiring you in the first place, and now you want me to hire someone else!" Bracket sighed heavily, his anger fading as rapidly as it had come. "Roy, you're a good man, and an excellent student. You'd make a mighty fine doctor if you ever decided to become one. But the fact remains, you  _aren't_  a doctor, and as bright as you are, I'm still worried that you'll get in over your head and make mistakes. And when you're talking about medicine, mistakes can kill. Ignorance can kill."

"Can you honestly tell me that you've never made a mistake, Doc?"

"No," Brackett admitted. "I've made plenty. But I have years of schooling and experience behind me, and hopefully, where my patients are concerned, those mistakes have been few and far between. A few months of training just doesn't compare."

Now it was Roy's turn to sigh as he straightened up. "I know that, Doc, and I'm not trying to say that it does. I know it's not a perfect solution. But what  _is_  your perfect solution? Hire half-a-dozen other doctors? You can't pay for them all out of your own pocket, and the town can barely afford you as it is."

Brackett leaned back in his chair once more, frowning deeply, and Roy knew he'd finally hit upon something that the doctor didn't have an answer for.

Money really didn't matter to Brackett, just like Dixie had claimed in her letters all those months ago. He treated anyone and everyone, letting them pay whatever they could, and Roy admired that. Yet, the fact was, Brackett had the means to run his practice that way. His family's wealth meant that he could charge his patients a wooden nickel and be no worse off for it, but that was a luxury few doctors enjoyed.

For most physicians, even if medicine was their passion, it was also their livelihood, and there was simply no way to support them in a small, western town like Mud Springs. Unfortunately, there was only so much Brackett could do to change that situation. Well-off though he was, his funds weren't limitless.

"You're right," Roy continued, "I'm not a doctor. I'd never claim to be one. But wouldn't you rather have me helping you instead of someone who's had no training at all? At least this way, you and Dixie aren't alone. You've got one man you can count on, and if you hire Johnny, you'll have two."

Brackett sighed heavily and his gaze drifted to the far wall, where the early morning light was shining through the study's window. He stared at it for a long moment, and then finally, he looked back at Roy and nodded.

"Alright, Roy. You've convinced me. I'll try it your way. But on one condition - I hire him on a trial basis, just like you. And he'll have to prove himself again before he gets anywhere near another patient."

"I'm sure he'll agree to that."

"Good. Ask him to stop by the clinic later so we can talk it over in person."

"I will," Roy promised. "Thanks, Doc."

Brackett smiled. "Oh, don't thank me yet, Roy. Even if he has done some studying on his own, he still has a lot to learn. And if I have to go through this all over again, then so do you."

* * *

Roy had known better than to think the doc was kidding.

So, he wasn't surprised when, a day later, he found himself walking back into Brackett's study with Johnny in tow, and there, on the desk, was a very familiar stack of books that the doc had laid out for them.

Johnny stopped next to him and stared down at the books, an incredulous expression his face.

"Did Brackett really make you read this much the first time around?" Johnny asked.

Roy nodded. "He did. This is just the first set."

"The first set?" Johnny repeated. He whistled lowly, shaking his head. "You think maybe the doc'll let us borrow his wagon? Looks like we're gonna need it just to carry these."

Roy snorted at that, though privately, he had to agree.

* * *

The second time under Brackett's strict tutelage, Roy was happy to say, turned out to be easier than the first. The words that had seemed so strange to him before were now familiar, the facts and figures falling neatly into place in his mind. It was, he had to admit, a relief to watch someone else struggle with the same Greek and Latin terminology that had given him such fits early on. Though, Roy's prediction was right - Johnny was a quick study, he seemed determined to master as much as he could as fast as he could.

Right now, they were both seated at the kitchen table in the bunkhouse, books spread open before them, covering most of the table's surface. It was too early in the evening for dinner, so Joanne had taken the children outside to play, giving him and Johnny a little peace and quiet in the meantime.

They needed it if they were ever going to get through the list of drugs Johnny was supposed to memorize.*

"Ipecac," Roy began

"Induces vomiting," Johnny answered immediately. "Also treats bronchitis."

"Morphine."

"Pain reliever."

"Dover's Powder."

"Mix of Ipecac and opium. Another pain reliever. Also treats diarrhea, pneumonia, and bronchitis."

"Camphor."

"Cough suppressant and decongestant."

"Calomel."

"Used for a wide variety of things, but especially good for complaints of the bowel."

"Quinine."

"Treats malaria, and various fevers."

"Chloroform."

"A form of anesthesia, like ether. It can be used in combination with ether or alone. If you don't have one of those, whiskey works too." Johnny snorted softly, rubbing his temple. "Whiskey. I'm almost tempted to ask for some now."

Roy just grinned and turned the page.

* * *

This morning, Brackett had left the clinic to visit Mrs. Gonzales, an elderly woman who complained of a new illness almost every week, even though, for her age, she seemed to be a picture of health. Roy guessed that she was probably just lonely, and Brackett agreed, but given her age, he preferred to check up on her regularly nonetheless. Still, the doc didn't seem to feel that his "assistants-in-training" needed to observe another routine exam, so he'd left them with Dixie, who'd decided it was a good time to review patient care.

"Terrible as the war was," Dixie lectured as she led them through the clinic's hallways, "we did learn a few valuable lessons, one of the most important being that patients kept in clean environments are less likely to suffer from infection while they recover. There are various theories about why, but right now, the 'why' doesn't matter - you can't argue with the evidence*."

Roy nodded thoughtfully. He'd seen the difference cleanliness made. There hadn't been time to worry about that on the ambulance wagons or during surgery - the surgeons' station had been a truly gruesome sight to behold - but as the war dragged on, the Army had started sending their sick and injured men to much larger hospitals where they could get clean water, good food, and fresh air, and the death rate had dropped.

"So," Dixie pressed, "always keep bandages clean and do not reuse them unless absolutely necessary.* Once a patient is in the clinic, their area should also be kept clean, and bedding should be changed regularly."

She stopped walking once she reached the back door and pushed it open, stepping outside. Roy and Johnny followed.

"Out here," Dixie continued, "I keep the equipment necessary to accomplish this, and today, you're going to familiarize yourselves with its use."

She led them over to a far corner of the yard, opposite the corral, where a washtub and a washboard sat. A clothesline had been hung a short distance away. Roy realized that the washtub was already filled with water, and next to it, there was a large pile of soiled bedding from clinic.

Johnny scowled. "You can't be serious! What do we look like, washer-women?"

"I'm very serious," Dixie insisted. "It's a valuable part of your education."

Roy looked at Dixie, then at the pile of bedding and back again. "You just want some help with the laundry, don't you?"

"Roy," Dixie said, pressing a hand to her chest in exaggerated affront, "I'm insulted that you think I'd stoop so low. Now," she added, picking up the washboard, "watch carefully. There will be a test later."

* * *

They stood in the clinic's exam room, gathered around the chest of drawers where Brackett kept his instruments. The doctor had the top drawer open, and he reached inside to remove the largest object in view.

"And this, gentlemen," he was saying, "is the last tool in the surgeon's arsenal: a bone saw. It had a lot of use during the war, as I'm sure you know."

Roy nodded grimly. He knew all too well how often it had been used. Minie balls* could do a lot of damage to the human body, and often, the fastest way to save a life was to simply amputate the mangled limb.

"We use it less often out here," the doctor continued, "but there may still be situations where it's necessary. You, however, will perform an amputation only in the most extreme circumstances, if I am not present and you believe the patient's life is in immediate danger."

Brackett put the saw back in its red-velvet lined case, then closed the drawer carefully.

"But, before we discuss amputation in more depth, you will need the basic skills necessary to perform such an operation, and the most basic of these is, perhaps, suturing."

He strode over to his desk where he already had a set of needles laid out, along with two pairs of forceps, some thread, and several pieces of old, scrap leather for practice.

Roy watched as the doc began to demonstrate the various suturing techniques, but when something else caught his gaze, he glanced over at Johnny and blinked in surprise. Johnny hadn't so much as batted an eye at the bone saw, but now that Brackett had a needle in hand, he looked a little pale.

Shaking his head at his friend, Roy turned his attention back to the doctor.

"When performing a continuous suture*," Brackett explained, "the suture needle is passed in a circular spiral down the length of an incision and tied on each end…"

* * *

They were all seated in Brackett's study, and the doctor was behind his desk while Roy and Johnny had taken the chairs in front of him. Roy was strongly reminded of the first time he'd sat in this chair, feeling like a schoolboy who'd been called to the headmaster's office. He felt a little like that right now, only this time, he wasn't the focus of the headmaster's scrutiny.

Brackett was leaning forward, his hands folded loosely on the desk, his brow furrowed as he stared intently at Johnny. He'd been quizzing him for nearly half an hour, reviewing everything they'd covered over the last four weeks, and a few minutes ago, he'd finally reached infectious disease.

"A patient has livid spots on the skin, but no fever," Brackett said. "What's the cause?"

Johnny frowned. "Do they have swollen and bleeding gums?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Scurvy."

Brackett looked pleased.

"A patient has a fever," he continued, "small red spots on their skin, and cold-like symptoms."

"Is the fever intermittent?"

"No."

"Measles."

Brackett nodded, then stopped to think for a moment. "A patient has head and body aches," he said at last, "a high fever, nausea, discoloration of the skin and whites of the eyes."

"Yellow fever."

Brackett nodded again, and leaned back in his chair, satisfied at last.

Johnny slumped back a little in his own seat, clearly relieved that it was over.

"So, Doc," he asked, "how'd I do?"

This time, Brackett smiled.

**TBC**

* * *

Historical and Content Notes

**Medications Used During the Civil War Era** : Many of the medications used in the Civil War era contained ingredients that are now known to be addictive, hazardous, or even poisonous. Opium was used often, "not only to treat pain but also in the treatment of severe diarrhea, pneumonia, and bronchitis." (Source: cprcertified (d o t) c o m, "Medicine in the American Civil War: Medications.") Additionally, opium was used in various other medicines, such Dover's Powder, which, as mentioned above, was a mixture of ipecac and opium. Calomel, which was also mentioned, was "used in the treatment of dysentery, [and] was a powdered medication that contained mercury." (Source: same as above.) Some medications, however, were actually safe and effective - such as Quinine - and they are still used today.

" **Can't argue with the evidence" - Civil War Era Germ Theory and Sanitation** : Germ theory was in its very early infancy during the Civil War era, and it began mostly in Europe. So, during the Civil War, sanitation wasn't initially that much of a concern. Simply put, "Doctors did not have a concept of germs and bacteria or how they spread infection. Surgeons often tended one patient after another without use of gloves or proper cleansing of the hands or equipment. Sterilization of instruments did not occur, and when instruments were wiped off, it was often with soiled surgery aprons, soiled cloth, or even the surgeon's dirty boot strap. (Source: cprcertified (d o t) c o m, "Medicine in the American Civil War: Medications.")

This is why, in my fic, Dixie mentioned reusing bandages if absolutely necessarily. Strange as it may sound to us, it wouldn't have been a shocking concept then. As you can imagine, these practices led to countless cases of infection among soldiers during the war. But, as Roy recalls, doctors did begin to realize the importance of sanitation as time went on. William A. Hammond, the Surgeon General of the Army (the man also considered the "Father of Modern Ambulance Services"), designed "clean, well ventilated and large pavilion-style hospitals, [where] suffering soldiers received care that was efficient and sanitary. In the later years of the war, these hospitals had a previously unheard of 8% mortality rate for their patients." (Source: battlefields (d o t) o r g, "Modern Medicine's Civil War Legacy.")

The military also started to realize the importance of sanitation in their camps, since the camps, too, were rife with disease. In fact, during the war, "for every man killed in battle, two died from disease" (Source: americancivilwar (d o t) com, "Sanitary Commission Pennant Proclaimed Improved Conditions.") In response to the high number of deaths, a group of civilians, largely made up of "church congregations, ladies aid societies and groups of all kinds," came together to form what became known as the U. S. Sanitation Committee. (Source: same as above.) They worked to "collect goods for soldiers in the field," and "pressured the Army Medical Department to 'improve sanitation, build large well-ventilated hospitals and encourage women to join the newly created nursing corps.'" Ultimately, "The U. S. Sanitary Commission, [contributed] significantly to alleviating the suffering of soldiers, [and] was the forerunner of the American Red Cross." (Source: same as above.)

 **Minie Balls** : The Minie ball (or the Minié ball as it is also called) was state-of-the-art ammunition during the Civil War era. The bullet was the result of various innovations from 1832 until 1849, when its final form was developed. It was a "conical, soft-lead bullet with four rings," though it was still called a ball "due to the round shape of the ammunition that had been used for centuries." (Source: history net (d o t) c o m, "Facts, information and articles about the Minié Ball, a Civil War bullet.") To fire it, "a rifle with a grooved barrel" was also designed, and both the bullet and the rifle were "named after…co-developer, Claude-Étienne Minié." (Source: same as above.) Minie balls were so damaging to the human body because the "soft lead that allowed [Minie] balls to expand within the rifle barrel also caused them to flatten out and/or splinter when they hit a human target. A smoothbore's solid shot could break bones and tear through tissue, but soft lead bullets shattered bone and ripped tissue." (Source: same as above.) This is part of the reason that there were so many amputations performed by surgeons during the Civil War.

 **A Continuous Suture** : I wanted to note that the wording Brackett uses to describe a continuous suture in my fic is taken from this web page: h-t-t-p (:) (slash) (slash) w-w-w (d o t) medicalantiques (d o t ) c o m (slash) civilwar (slash) Articles (slash) Suture (underscore) needles (d o t ) h t m. I decided to use that particular wording since it seemed to be the most medically accurate way to describe it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: The next chapter should, Lord willing, be up in a few days. :) 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, and please let me know what you think! 
> 
> Take care and God bless! 
> 
> -Laughter


	6. A Bitter Pill to Swallow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thank you again to everyone who is reading, and especially those who have reviewed! Your comments are so incredibly appreciated.
> 
> As always, I thank my Lord Jesus Christ for his incredible mercy and grace and his many blessings. I would be utterly lost without him. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy this, and please let me know what you think!

** Frontier Medicine **

Chapter 6: A Bitter Pill to Swallow

"I'm tellin' ya, Roy, it's just not fair," Johnny insisted.

Roy bit back a sigh. Johnny had been complaining ever since the doc had told him that, despite passing his exam, he was _still_ only allowed to observe when a patient needed to be treated. That had been about twenty minutes ago, shortly after they'd both arrived at the clinic. It was early yet, and Roy hoped the rest of the day wouldn't be like this, though, considering how things looked so far, he wouldn't count on it. Johnny showed no signs of slowing down.

"I passed muster, didn't I? I answered every one of those questions right. So why won't he let me do the job he hired me for? Or you, for that matter! You oughta be his prized pupil by now!"

Roy  _did_  sigh this time, but the sigh wasn't entirely directed at Johnny. He was frustrated too. Given his status as the "senior" partner, so to speak, the doc allowed him to do a little more, but never without careful supervision, and often, like Johnny, he could do nothing but sit back and watch. His three-month contract would be up in a couple weeks, and sure, the doc had already talked about extending it…but only for another two months. It made him wonder what it would take to finally convince Brackett that he'd made the right choice when he'd hired them.

Still, talking the subject to death wouldn't do them any good right now, and Johnny seemed well on his way to doing just that.

"'Observe,' he says! Observe! I did more than observe when I found Miller in his yard, and so did you! I didn't hear the doc bellyachin' then!"

"Johnny," he pointed out evenly, "you agreed to follow Brackett's rules when you signed on."

"Sure I did, and I will. But that doesn't mean I have to like it!"

Roy shook his head and upended the bucket of water into the trough attached to the corral, setting the now-empty bucket back down on the ground. It had become their job to see to the horses every morning, and it was a job Roy didn't usually mind, though today was proving to be an exception.

"When I said that nobody around here would let me help 'em, I didn't figure that the doc would be one of 'em," Johnny muttered. "If I wanted to be a glorified ranch hand, I'd have signed on with Chet and Marco over at Cabrero's."

Roy glanced over at his friend and frowned. He'd figured that Johnny just needed to let off some steam, but now he wondered if his frustration ran even deeper than that. He hoped that Brackett's reluctance wouldn't eventually push Johnny into quitting.

"Johnny," Roy started, but before he could finish, he heard the familiar clatter of a rapidly approaching wagon at the front of the clinic.

He and Johnny looked at each other, and then, without a word, they both broke into a run, coming around the front of the building just in time to see the wagon stop at the clinic's door.

Vince Howard was in the driver's seat.

Vince was a large, Negro man, with big shoulders, a broad chest, and a stern face. He had long sideburns and a thick mustache, and he wore a blue vest and a tan striped shirt with brown canvas pants. His hat was dark brown as well, with a wide, down-turned brim, and it had a black leather cord that served as a hat band.

Roy didn't know him well, but he knew that Vince worked as the town's gunsmith, and he had a reputation for being solid and reliable. When Sheriff Stanley needed the extra manpower, Vince was usually the first in line to be deputized.

Brackett and Dixie had come jogging out of the clinic about the same time that Roy and Johnny had come around the corner, and as Brackett climbed up into the back of the wagon, Roy realized there was another man laying in the wagon's bed. Roy didn't recognize him, but he was young, with dark, curly blond hair that fell to his collar. He wore a loose, faded green shirt, tan pants, and brown boots, all of which were covered in a thick layer of dust. A black hat lay in the wagon bed next to him, just as dust-covered as he was, a small tear in the brim. The man was holding his right shoulder, his face pinched in pain.

"Deputy Stoker found him on the edge of town," Vince said. "Says his name's Jack Harrison."

"Can you tell me what happened, Mr. Harrison?" Brackett asked, starting to examine him.

The man nodded, gritting his teeth. "A good…fer…nothin'…horse thief*, that's…what happened. One minute…I was riding, the next…I had a bullet in my back…and I passed out. When I came to…my horse was gone…and so was …ever'thing else. My canteen…my rifle…my Colt…my saddlebags. Didn't leave me nothing…but the clothes on…my back."

"Sheriff Stanley and Deputy Stoker left to see if there's a trail," Vince explained. "They asked me to bring him here."

Brackett offered Vince his appreciation, then looked back at Mr. Harrison and turned him gently onto his left side, examining his back. Brackett grimaced unhappily and laid the man back down. "How long ago were shot, Mr. Harrison?"

"'Bout two…days ago," he answered. "Had ta…keep goin'…on foot. Wasn't sure…I'd make it here."

"Well, I know it doesn't feel like it now, but you're a lucky man. It looks like the bullet stopped at your shoulder blade. If it hadn't, it would've pierced your lung, and we wouldn't be having this conversation. Just the same, that bullet needs to come out." He looked up at his wife. "Dixie, go get things set up. We'll be there in a minute. Roy, Johnny, can you give me a hand?"

Dixie hurried back into the clinic while Roy stepped forward, Johnny right behind him.

They unlatched the back of the wagon, lowering the board, then climbed up into the bed of the wagon with the doctor. Roy placed himself at Harrison's head, and Johnny positioned himself at the injured man's feet, ready to lift him up when the doc gave the word.

Harrison frowned as he caught sight of Johnny. "You've got…a half-breed*…workin' for you…Doc?" he asked.

His words weren't hostile - he seemed more surprised than anything else - but Roy saw a muscle tick along Johnny's jaw anyway. Roy gritted his teeth as he fought the urge to say something that he might regret later, and Brackett's eyes narrowed.

" _Mr. Gage_ ," the doctor said, emphasizing his name, "is studying to become my assistant. If you have problem with that, Mr. Harrison, that's too bad. You're in no shape to argue." Brackett looked the man over one more time then nodded. "Alright, lift him."

They did, slowly raising him from the wagon bed. As careful as they tried to be, Harrison still groaned in pain when they stepped down off the wagon and carried him into the clinic.

A few minutes later, Harrison was in surgery.

* * *

It wasn't a terribly difficult operation. Brackett's earlier diagnosis proved to be correct - Harrison's shoulder blade had stopped the bullet, and it was mostly a matter of cutting out the slug that was still embedded there, then stitching up the wound. There was some damage to the bone itself, but there was nothing Brackett could do for it. That would have to heal on its own.

All things considered, Harrison really was a lucky man.

Still, Brackett was worried. The wound looked inflamed, and while some doctors believed that to be a sign of healing*, Brackett believed it to mean that the patient had a long fight ahead. He said that he'd seen too many patients go downhill when their wounds showed those supposedly promising signs. It didn't help that Harrison's body was already weakened from his trek through the desert that surrounded Mud Springs. Before the surgery, he'd told them that he had managed to find a small creek a ways back, so he wasn't as bad off as he might have been otherwise, but he'd had nothing to carry water in, so he'd had to settle for a good drink before he moved on.

Roy felt for the man. He'd been through quite an ordeal, and if Brackett was right, it wasn't over yet.

* * *

An hour later, the doc's predictions seemed to be coming true. Harrison still hadn't woken from the anesthesia, his breathing was a little labored, and already, a thin sheen of sweat was visible on his brow.

They had moved him onto a bed in one of the clinic's extra rooms, one on the first floor, just a short distance from the exam room. They laid him on his stomach to keep his weight off the wound, and he was stripped to the waist with a sheet draped over his legs. Strips of white linen were wrapped over his injured shoulder.

Dixie had just started sponging him down with water when the sound of rapid hoof beats could be heard once more.

"Again?" Johnny said, surprised.

Roy listened for a moment. "Sounds like it," he agreed.

"Watch him for a minute, will you, Dix?" Brackett asked.

Dixie nodded, dipping the rag back into the water basin, then ringing it out and continuing to run the cool cloth over the fevered man's skin.

Brackett turned quickly on his heel and Roy followed, Johnny just a few steps behind. They stepped out onto the boardwalk a moment later, and found a worried-looking Mexican man at the reins of a large, black, two-seat buggy. He wore a simple, light brown shirt and matching pants, with a red bandana tied around his neck, and a worn, brown hat with a wide brim was perched on his head.

He breathed a prayer of thanks as soon as he saw Brackett.

"Doctor, gracias a Dios que estás aquí!* Señora Perkins sent me! Our foreman, Señor Branson, was trying to fix a hole in the roof, but he fell, and now we cannot wake him! Señora Perkins, she tell me to hurry, to get the doctor. Please come, señor! Es muy terrible! Su cabeza… Él está sangrando*!"

Brackett frowned. "I'm sorry, I didn't understand that last-"

"He said his head is bleeding," Johnny translated grimly.

Roy glanced at him in surprise, and from the corner of his eye, he saw the doc do the same.

Johnny shrugged. "Marco's taught me some."

Brackett's frown deepened as he turned back to the man in the buggy. "How bad is the bleeding?" he asked.

"Bad, señor, Very bad."

Brackett hesitated, clearly thinking of Harrison's declining condition.

"Wait here a moment," he told the worried man at last. "I have another patient inside, but I promise you'll have help."

The Mexican man nodded, looking relieved. "Muchas gracias, señor."

Their footsteps on the wooden floor must have been loud enough to alert Dixie of their return, because she left Harrison's side and appeared in the door of the exam room.

"Harrison still hasn't woken," she said without preamble. "What's the news, Kel?"

"There's been an accident over at Moira Perkins's ranch," Brackett explained. "The foreman fell off the roof, and from the sound of it, he has a head injury." The doc sighed, his gaze drifting in the direction of Harrison's room. "Problem is, I don't think I should leave Harrison right now. Not until he wakes up, at least. Can you handle this one? I'll send Roy and Johnny with you."

Dixie nodded. "Sure, Kel. Just let me get a few things."

She took off the white apron she'd had on while tending Harrison, walking across the room to hang it on the hook she used near the door. Then, she reached for the coat rack and picked up her long, gray jacket, slipping it on over the light blue dress she was wearing.

Roy followed her example, walking over to grab his own brown coat from the rack. The early-November weather had been mild so far - certainly far warmer than the Novembers he remembered in Pennsylvania - but it was still cooler than he had grown used to over the last couple months. Johnny seemed to feel the same way because he put on his coat as well.

Dixie hurried around the room gathering supplies, including several rolls of linen bandages and an extra supply of smelling salts, with the hope that they might be able to rouse the unconscious man. She packed them quickly in the black medical bag that sat on Brackett's desk, then shut the bag with a snap and started for the door.

"You sure you'll be alright?" Brackett asked as she passed him.

Dixie smiled. "I'll be fine, Kel. I'll have not one, but  _two_  escorts, remember?" She stopped at his side just long enough to kiss his cheek then continued on.

Roy was closer to the door than she was, so he pushed it open, waving Johnny through as well before he nodded farewell to the doc. "We'll take care of her," he promised.

Roy saw Brackett nod gratefully in return, then shut the door of the clinic and joined the others in the buggy.

Dixie had taken a seat next to the Mexican man who said his name was Pablo, while Johnny had chosen the seat behind the driver, so Roy took the empty spot beside him.

Pablo urged the horses forward with a flick of his wrist, and the buggy rolled ahead smoothly.

Roy had never visited the Perkins's ranch, but he'd heard about it. They were said to have the finest horses around, with two prize stallions and many excellent mares. The ranch had been started by Moira Perkins's husband, Oliver, but he had passed away nearly a decade ago, and Moira had continued on in his stead.

When they arrived, the ranch looked as impressive as its reputation suggested, the main house nearly a rival for the one that Brackett had bought.

Even if he'd never met the woman, Roy was sure that it was Moira Perkins herself that came to meet the buggy as soon as it arrived. She was a slender, stern-looking woman in her late forties, with green eyes, a strong, square jaw, high cheekbones, and long nose. Her dark blonde hair was pulled up into a bun that sat a little above the nape of her neck, a few streaks of gray weaving their way through the tawny strands. She wore a white blouse with a cameo pinned to her collar at the throat, and a navy skirt that fell to her ankles.

"Dixie?" she said immediately, sounding surprised. "Where's Doctor Brackett?"

"He's with another patient, Moira, a man who was shot," Dixie explained, climbing out of the buggy before anyone could offer her a hand down. "His condition is too serious right now for Dr. Brackett to feel comfortable leaving him. But he sent me, along with the assistants he's training. This is Roy Desoto," she introduced, motioning towards him.

Roy climbed out of the buggy and tipped his hat in greeting. "Mrs. Perkins."

"And this is John Gage," Dixie added.

Johnny tipped his hat as well, hopping down from the buggy himself. "Ma'am."

Something like distaste flashed over the woman's face, but the expression was gone so quickly that Roy wondered if he'd imagined it.

"Where is your foreman now?" Dixie asked. "And can you tell me anymore about what happened?"

Mrs. Perkins's glanced at Johnny one more time, then nodded and turned away, leading them quickly across the property.

"Jim was on the roof trying to patch a leak that sprung up after the last rain storm," she explained. "He must have lost his balance, because the next thing I know, I hear a yell and then a crash. When I came out of the house, Jim was laying on the ground. He wasn't moving and there was a lot of blood. He's awake now, though - he woke up not long after I sent Pablo into town for help. But I still think you should look him over." She stopped walking as they reached the corner of the main house, and nodded at the ladder that was still leaning against the building. "Jim's right over here. We felt it best not to move him."

It took Roy a moment to actually spot the foreman, simply because there was a small group of worried people gathered around him. Most of them seemed to be ranch hands like Pablo probably was, but kneeling down beside him was a young woman in a pink dress with sleeves that ended at the elbows. She was pressing a bundle of cloth to the injured man's bleeding forehead, biting her lip and wincing in sympathy. Judging by her blonde hair and green eyes, Roy guessed that she was Mrs. Perkins's daughter.

The foreman himself was sitting on the ground, leaning against the side of the house. He seemed to be somewhere in his early fifties, and he had short, brown hair that had mostly gone gray, though his eyebrows and horseshoe-mustache had clung tenaciously to their original color. His face was weathered, with a large, straight nose, and a broad forehead. He wore a blue shirt with a brown vest and black pants, and a red bandana was tied around his throat. Undoubtedly, the brown Stetson that sat on the ground a few feet away belonged to him as well.

Dixie stepped forward immediately. "You mind if switch places with you, Claire?" she asked.

The young woman at the foreman's side turned around and breathed a sigh of relief. "Oh, Nurse Dixie! I'm glad you're here! Jim's hurt real bad."

She stood up, stepping aside and removing the cloth she had been using, and Roy resisted the urge to wince in sympathy. There was indeed a lot of blood. It covered almost the entire right side of the foreman's face, staining a good portion of his shirt as well, and the source of it was a large, three-inch gash just a little below his hairline.

Dixie knelt down beside the injured man, offering him a sympathetic smile. "Glad to see you're awake now, Mr. Branson. How are you feeling?"

The foreman snorted softly, then winced. "Like I been run over by a stampede. Twice."

Dixie nodded. "I can imagine. You look it, too."

The foreman seemed to appreciate the humor because his lips quirked, his mustache twitching. "I'll bet I do. How bad's the damage?"

"Well, that's what I need to figure out. Your pulse and breathing seem alright. Roy, can you handle the rest of the exam while I have a look at this gash?"

"Sure," Roy agreed.

The crowd parted as he moved forward to join Dixie, while Johnny stayed back with the others.

"Hi, Mr. Branson. I'm Roy DeSoto."

"Howdy," the other man returned.

"Can you move your arms, Mr. Branson?"

"Sure can." He moved them to demonstrate.

"How about your legs?"

"They're just fine," he assured, moving them also.

"What about your neck or back? Do you have any pain there?"

"Nah, none there. My right side hurts some. I think I landed on it when I hit the ground."

Roy nodded in understanding. "Do you mind if I check your side? I just wanna make sure you don't have any broken ribs."

"Go ahead."

Roy reached out with both hands to press carefully on the other man's rib cage, watching for any give in the bones. The foreman winced at the poking and prodding, but Roy didn't feel anything out of place.

"I think you're just bruised," he offered at last.

"Good to know," Branson said.

"It is," Dixie agreed, "though, I'm afraid this gash will need stitches." She turned around to look at Mrs. Perkins. "Moira, it should be safe to move him. Can we take him inside and get him cleaned up?"

"Of course," Mrs. Perkins answered. "You can use one of the guest rooms upstairs."

Branson started to push himself up from the ground in response, but Dixie laid a hand on his shoulder. "Easy, now. That's quite a fall you had. I said it was safe to move you. I didn't say you would be walking anywhere under your own power." She turned around once more.

"Roy, Johnny, can you give him a hand?"

"I don't need to be carried," Branson protested.

"You won't be," Dixie assured, standing up. "But you should let them help you."

In the end, they wound up walking the injured man into the house with his arms slung over their shoulders, Johnny on one side and Roy on the other. He and Johnny were the same height, and Branson wasn't too much shorter, so there wasn't much jostling involved. Still, by the time they reached the guest room upstairs, Branson was starting to stumble, and they were taking more of his weight.

The guest room was a little smaller than most of the other rooms they passed, but the décor was a match for the rest of the house - a touch of East Coast elegance brought out West - with diamond patterned green wallpaper on the walls, white curtains made of fine fabric, and pristine, hardwood floors. The bed itself had a frame made of walnut, and a matching side table and wardrobe sat nearby.

Branson breathed a heavy sigh of relief when they laid him down on the bed, offering them a quiet thanks for their help.

Just as Roy and Johnny were hanging their hats on a row of hooks by the door, Mrs. Perkins's daughter - Claire, Roy remembered - brought a bowl of water and some rags so that they could wash away the blood on Branson's face. It was Pablo who brought a new shirt over from the bunkhouse so that Branson could change out of his bloodied one, and he also returned Branson's fallen hat, setting it on the side table, which earned a grateful smile from the injured foreman.

Dixie did the actual suturing. She used just enough morphine to help dull Branson's pain, then made quick work of it, her nimble fingers stitching the gash closed in short order. She wrapped a length of linen bandage gently over the stitched wound, and Branson drifted off into sleep afterwards, prompted partly by the morphine, and partly by his body's own need for rest.

They had started helping Dixie pack the unused supplies when Roy caught sight of some movement out of the corner of his eye and turned to see Claire Perkins standing in the doorway, watching Branson with worried eyes.

"Is he gonna be alright?" she asked.

"He's gonna be fine," Roy promised.

"You're sure? I about fainted when I saw how much he was bleedin'."

"Head wounds tend to bleed a lot, ma'am," Johnny offered from his own place by the bed. "They're not always as bad as they look."

Miss Perkins gave him a grateful smile, and Johnny smiled back, wide enough to make Miss Perkins blush a little. Roy looked away to help Dixie roll a left-over length of bandaging, then bit back a smirk when he looked up again and realized that Johnny and Miss Perkins were still smiling at each other.

Dixie saw it too and rolled her eyes, though a faint smirk played on her lips as well.

Roy wasn't at all surprised that when they were picking up their hats, almost ready to leave, it was Johnny who held Miss Perkins's attention.

"I really want to thank you for your help, Mr.…?" she trailed off deliberately.

"Gage." Johnny supplied, grinning. "But you can call me Johnny."

Miss Perkins blushed again and gave a small curtsy. "A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Johnny."

"Believe me," he said, stepping a little closer, "the pleasure's all mine."

Roy thought his friend might be laying it on a little thick, but Miss Perkins didn't seem to agree.

Roy could understand Johnny's interest. She couldn't have been much younger than Johnny himself, with features that were softer than her mother's, and long, blonde hair that was pulled up in the front, while the rest hung down her back, all the way to her waist.

"Say," Johnny began, "a pretty girl like you wouldn't be-"

Whatever Johnny had been about to ask was interrupted by Mrs. Perkins's arrival.

Her angry gaze landed on Johnny first, and then darted over to her daughter. "Claire!" she said sharply. "What are you doing?"

Claire gave Johnny an apologetic look.

"Mama," she protested, "we were just-"

"You know better! Now, go on. You have work to do in the kitchen," Mrs. Perkins insisted. "I suggest you get to it."

"But-"

"You heard me."

It seemed like Claire wanted to argue more, but one glance at her mother's face was apparently enough to quell the urge.

Her shoulders slumped a little. "Yes, ma'am."

Claire offered Johnny a sad little smile, then she turned and hurried down the hall.

The moment she left, Mrs. Perkins gave Johnny a contemptuous look, a silent warning that couldn't have been any clearer if she'd screamed it. Maybe she was this upset any time someone tried to charm her daughter, but somehow, Roy doubted it.

When she was sure Johnny had gotten the message, she dismissed him just as quickly, her eyes moving over to Dixie, who was still by the bed, re-packing the last of the supplies into Brackett's medical bag.

"How's Jim doing?" she asked.

"Not bad, considering," Dixie answered, shutting the bag with a snap. "But I recommend bed rest for at least a few days. Even after that, he should take it easy for while, with no time spent on horseback, and definitely no more attempts to patch the roof, at least not until he gets his strength back. Dr. Brackett will be over to examine him as soon as he can, but you can always send for us if there's any change for the worse. In the meantime, have someone check on him every few hours, and watch for any signs of trouble with that gash." She smiled. "As long as he gets his rest, though, and that gash heals up well, he should be just fine."

"I'll make sure your instructions are followed," Mrs. Perkins's promised. "Thank you, Dixie." She glanced over at Roy and nodded. "You as well, Mr. DeSoto."

She didn't so much as glance at Johnny, and the implied snub was impossible to miss.

Roy bristled, and he saw Dixie frown but before either of them could speak, Mrs. Perkins continued.

"I've already asked Pablo to give you a ride back to town. He's waiting outside in the buggy."

Dixie was still frowning.

"Thank you, Moira," she said at last, though there was an uncertain edge to her words.

Johnny didn't say anything, but his eyes were dark and his jaw was clenched tight. That expression stayed on Johnny's face as Mrs. Perkins led them back downstairs, through the house, and out into the yard.

"Moira," Dixie asked as they reached the buggy, "is something wrong?"

Mrs. Perkins hesitated, obviously debating about what to say, but she finally seemed to settle on the truth.

"I appreciate you coming here, Dixie, truly I do," she said at last. "But frankly, I was surprised by the company you're keeping. I didn't think you were the type to associate with  _his_  kind."

She looked pointedly at Johnny, disdain visible beneath the polite façade she wore.

Dixie followed her gaze and this time, when she looked back at Mrs. Perkins, her expression was a great deal colder.

"Clearly," Dixie returned, "we were both mistaken about each other's character. Good day, Mrs. Perkins."

With that, Dixie strode forward and climbed up into the buggy, retaking her seat beside Pablo.

Choosing to follow her example, Roy walked past Mrs. Perkins and silently reclaimed his own seat. Johnny joined him a moment later.

Roy wasn't sure how much of the conversation Pablo had heard, but he'd obviously caught some of it because he turned to glance between them and Mrs. Perkins, noticeably uncomfortable. After a moment, he seemed to decide that his best option was to simply continue as if nothing had happened at all.

Pablo flicked the reins, clicking his tongue, and the horses started forward.

When they reached the edge of the Perkins's property, Roy looked over at Johnny, and found that his friend's eyes were locked on the passing scenery.

"I'm sorry," he offered quietly.

And he was. Sorry for the way that Harrison had reacted when he'd seen Johnny earlier…sorry that Mrs. Perkins had treated him so poorly…sorry that Johnny had to face any of it at all.

Johnny pulled his gaze away from the landscape and shrugged a little. "I've told you before, it's not your fault. Besides, I knew what I was getting into when I agreed to this." He smirked faintly. "You know, you can't say I didn't warn you."

Roy sighed. "Yeah," he agreed, "you did. I just didn't want you to be right."

**TBC**

* * *

Historical and Content Notes

**Horse Thieves** : Historians can't find any record of people being hanged "by a legal court" specifically for horse stealing. (Source: truewestmagazine (d o to) c o m, "When did they stop hanging men for horse theft? Also, what was the penalty after hanging was outlawed?") Simply put, under the law, horse stealing itself wasn't a capitol offense, though it was punishable by jail time. But, as mentioned in some of my previous notes, even if an individual wasn't physically injured by a horse thief, "being left afoot [without a horse] could be fatal," and so, "when the law did not bring a thief to justice, vigilantes often took charge and hanged thieves." (Source: truewestmagazine (d o t) c o m, "Was horse theft a capital offense during the Old West era?")

 **Half-breed** : The term "half-breed," seems to have originated from the early 1760s. (Source: etymonline (d o t) c o m, "Half-breed.") It was not always considered to be offensive, and was used by both the U.S. government and the Canadian government when describing people of mixed race, though it was most often used to describe those who were, "half Native American and half European or white." (Wikipedia.) Over time, however, it has come to be seen by many as a derogatory insult.

" **A sign of healing" - The Civil War Era's Mistaken Beliefs about Infection** : As mentioned in the notes from the last chapter, doctors from the Civil War era had no "concept of germs and bacteria or how they spread infection." (Source: cprcertified (d o t) c o m, "Medicine in the American Civil War: Medications.") This extended to the ways in which doctors viewed certain symptoms that patients displayed. In fact, "Thick and creamy pus, which was referred to as laudable pus, from wounds was mistaken as a good sign of healing and was not recognized as a sign of infection." (Source: same as above.)

 **Spanish Translation** :

"Doctor, gracias a Dios que estás aquí!" - "Doctor, thank God you're here!"

"Es muy terrible! Su cabeza… Él está sangrando!" - "It is very terrible! His head… He is bleeding!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Again, the next chapter should, Lord willing, be up in a few days. :)
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, and please let me know what you think!
> 
> Take care and God bless!
> 
> -Laughter


	7. Bite the Bullet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I'm sorry for the delay in posting! I've been a little under the weather the last few days - both figuratively and literally. The area I live in has been hit pretty hard by some big storms.

** Frontier Medicine **

Chapter 7: Bite the Bullet

"I'll say it again, I ain't being treated by no injun!"

Roy watched as Brackett's eyes narrowed at the old man. One Edgar Wilkins, he'd told them.

Wilkins had a weathered face, with deep lines crossing his forehead and a heavy brow that seemed to form a perpetual scowl. His gray hair was wild, sticking up in tufts, and he had a long, ragged beard. He wore faded, long red underwear that had been left unbuttoned at the collar, revealing still more tufts of wiry, gray hair on his chest. His legs were covered, the blankets on his bed pooling around his waist, and his torso was supported by a small mound of pillows.

According to a neighbor, he'd heard the old man hollering and found him on the floor of the barn, right by the hay loft. Wilkins said he'd been moving some hay bales when his back had given out and he'd been in too much pain to get up without help.

It was the neighbor who'd gone to fetch Brackett, and now, they were all standing in Wilkins's small bedroom, gathered around his bed.

Brackett folded his arms across his chest. "Mr. Gage is only here to observe, Mr. Wilkins."

"I don't care! I want 'im gone!"

Roy could see Johnny stiffen at the man's words.

"Mr. Wilkins-" Brackett tried again.

"Now!" the old man demanded, his voice like the crack of whip.

Brackett's eyes turned stormy, and he opened his mouth to continue the argument, but Johnny raised a hand, cutting him off.

"It's alright, Doc," he said tightly. "He's in pain, and he has the right to say who sets foot in his house. I'll go."

Johnny tipped his hat at Wilkins with far more politeness than the man deserved, then left with his head held high.

Not wanting to be in the old man's presence any longer - and sure he wouldn't be able to keep from speaking his mind if he stayed - Roy turned and followed Johnny out of the house. He wasn't really surprised when his friend stopped at the hitching post where their horses were tied.

The rear axel on Brackett's wagon had broken a couple days before, and for the first time since then, Roy was glad that it had happened. He could see some of the tension draining out of Johnny as he walked over to the blanket-clad dapple gray that was standing next to Roy's faithful bay horse and Dr. Brackett's black. Johnny ran his hand gently over his dapple gray's blaze, and when the horse nuzzled his hand in response, Johnny smiled.

Roy walked over and leaned against the end of the hitching post.

"You didn't have to go."

Johnny glanced over at him. "Yes, I did. Wilkins needs help, and Brackett wouldn't have gotten anywhere with him if I'd stayed."

Roy grimaced, but he didn't try to apologize, already knowing the response he would get. It was the same response he'd gotten every time: it wasn't his fault. He supposed it wasn't, not really. But he  _was_  the one who'd talked Johnny into doing this in the first place, and Roy couldn't help feeling like he was to blame somehow.

Of all the folks they'd seen with Brackett over the last couple weeks, four hadn't made any sort of fuss about Johnny's presence. Five, if you counted the little boy who'd fallen out of a tree he'd been climbing. He'd been thrilled to meet Johnny - even if most of his ideas about Indians sounded like they came straight out of a dime novel. The boy's parents, however, were another matter. They'd had plenty to say, and none of it good.

Roy had been strongly reminded of Moira Perkins's attitude, though, thankfully, she hadn't been among the people they'd met with. Neither he, Johnny, or Dixie had been particularly eager to go to the ranch again, and the doc had understood, assuring them that he would simply check up on Jim Branson alone. (He had done just that, returning from his latest visit with the news that the foreman was well on his way to a complete recovery. Branson was still fighting the occasional headache, which Brackett said was to be expected after such a hard blow, but that gash had healed without any trouble, and he had already begun doing light chores around the property.)

Still, even though Mrs. Perkins herself hadn't been a concern, there had been plenty of others who'd seemed determined to pick up where she had left off. Johnny had endured every single insult in stony silence, his jaw clenched tight, his fists curled at his sides. It didn't do any good, he'd said, to shout back at ignorant folks. If anything, that seemed to prove to them that he really was the "savage" they imagined him to be, even if they were the ones who'd started in on him in the first place. He'd said that his ma and pa - and later his aunt, who'd taken him in after his parents had died - had taught him to show those folks just how wrong they were by doing his best to be a good and decent man.

Johnny had obviously taken their lessons to heart, and Roy respected him for it, more than he could say. He just hated that Johnny had to endure those insults at all, especially now, when all he really wanted to do was help people.

But, despite it all, Johnny seemed determined to stick it out. He hadn't said anything else that made Roy wonder if he planned to quit…not since that day two weeks ago, anyway, when Brackett had told him that he would still only be allowed to observe. Roy honestly wouldn't have blamed Johnny if he'd left, though, and not only because of the attitudes of most of the townspeople. Johnny still had his homestead, and really, he'd only doubled his workload by taking the job with Brackett. If anything, he now had twice the work, and twice the trouble. At this rate, even when Brackett finally agreed that Johnny was ready to do more, it wouldn't change much for him at all.

There were too many people in Mud Springs that felt like Wilkins…like Lane, and Miller, and Mrs. Perkins.

 _It's not fair_ , Roy thought.  _It's just not fair._

Johnny would make a great assistant for Brackett if the town would actually let him do his job when the time came.

Why couldn't people see that?

The sound of footsteps made Roy turn just in time to see Brackett walk out of Wilkins's front door.

Wilkins lived in a small, rickety, old cabin that looked like it was on the brink of collapse. The timber used to build it was uneven and badly stacked, and the line of the roof sagged in the middle. Roy supposed it was actually solid enough - it seemed to have been standing for a while given the aged look of the wood - but he wondered if that might be more of a testament to luck, rather than the quality of the construction.

A small porch jutted out from the front of the building, and that was where Brackett stood now. The doctor paused just long enough to shut the front door behind him and then turned to face them, putting his hands in the pockets of his long, gray frock coat.

For a moment, it looked like he wanted to apologize to Johnny for what Wilkins had said.

Maybe Johnny saw it too, because he asked quickly, "How's he doing, Doc?"

Brackett sighed. "I still need to examine him more thoroughly, but I think it's just a bad strain. Wilkins has had back trouble for years. I've warned him to take it easy before, but he hasn't listened. Maybe he will now." Brackett bit his lip and looked away for a moment. "Tell you what," he said at last. "I'll manage him alone. Could you two do me a favor and head back to town, see how the repairs are going on the wagon?"

 _Are you sure we can't stay here instead?_  Roy quipped silently, though he managed to stop himself from actually saying it out loud.

It didn't seem fair to joke about that, not when Johnny was probably glad to have an excuse to leave - even if it did mean facing Mud Spring's temperamental blacksmith, Charley Hughes. It wasn't that Charley was unfriendly, exactly. He was perfectly friendly…unless he thought that you'd been careless with one of "his" wagons. And, as Roy had learned a few days ago, as far as Charley was concerned, any wagon he worked on became "his" by default.

Roy glanced over at Johnny, silently asking his opinion, and Johnny shrugged, nodding.

Roy turned back to Brackett. "Sure, Doc," he agreed for both of them.

Johnny started untying his horse's reins from around the hitching post, and Roy walked around Johnny to do the same with his bay.

When his horse was free, Roy hooked his left foot into the stirrup and swung his right leg over the saddle. By the time he was settled, he turned around to find that Johnny was already on his dapple gray, balanced easily on the blanket covering its back. Johnny smirked at him, and Roy rolled his eyes. He'd stopped trying to compete with Johnny that way the first time they'd ridden together. That was one contest he wouldn't win.

"Meet you back at the clinic?" Johnny asked, glancing over at Brackett.

The doc thought for a moment, squinting at the afternoon sun.

"Maybe," he answered at last, "but I might be a while. After I get through with Wilkins, I think I'll pay Mrs. Gonzales a visit. Her place is just a little ways over that ridge. I might see how Essie and her mother are getting on, too. If it gets late, tell Dixie that I'll just meet her at home."

"Okay, Doc. Will do. See ya later."

With a click of his tongue, Johnny coaxed his horse forward, and Roy followed on his bay, calling out a farewell to the doc as he passed.

Wilkins's place was pretty close to town, and even keeping to a leisurely pace, he and Johnny made it back to Mud Springs in good time. They didn't have to go all that far into town, either - Charley's place was close to the outskirts.

His shop was an old, weathered building that resembled a barn from the front, with two large barn doors that were propped open, revealing the work area inside. The tall façade above the doors was decorated by large, wooden lettering that proclaimed the building's purpose, and leaning by the doors was an old, wooden slat decorated with an assortment of iron work, advertising some of Charley's wares.

A short distance away, a corral had been built for the horses that Charley worked on, since Mud Springs was too small to boast a specialized farrier. The town didn't have a wheelwright either, which was why wagons fell under Charley's care too. It was probably a good thing that they did. Charley was awfully protective of his "territory," and if the town gossip was right, he'd spent years as a boxer to boot. If Roy had been in the wagon business himself, he sure wouldn't have wanted to be the one to challenge Charley, and he was at least half a head taller.

"You think he's in a good mood?" Roy wondered aloud.

Johnny snorted softly. "Is he ever?" he asked, hopping down from his horse.

Roy's lips quirked. "You may have a point."

Roy watched as Johnny hooked his horse's reins around the hitching post outside of Charley's shop, then swung down out of his saddle and tied his horse next to Johnny's. When he started forward, Johnny fell into step with him.

The first thing they heard as they approached was the sound of the bellows as Charley worked it. As they got closer, they began to feel the heat, and when their eyes adjusted to the dim light inside the shop, they could see the bright, red-orange glow of the fire burning in his forge.

"Howdy, Charley," Johnny called.

Charley Hughes had short, gray hair that was silver at his temples, and he wore it slicked back, away from his forehead. He had dark eyes and a prominent nose which looked like it had been broken more than once, and his jaw was square with a pointed chin. He wasn't a big man, but every movement he made spoke of wiry strength, and he had the easy confidence of someone who knew how to handle himself.

Today, he wore a blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and gray trousers with knee-high black boots. A worn, brown-leather apron hung over his shoulders, reaching all the way down past his knees, protecting his chest and legs from stray sparks.

The blacksmith turned and took a piece of iron out of the fire with some long, metal tongs, then dunked it into a nearby bucket of water. It sizzled and steamed.

"Oh," Charley said when he saw them. "It's you two. Let me guess, the doc sent you?"

"He did," Johnny confirmed. "He just wanted to know how the repairs on the wagon are coming."

Charley gave a put-upon sigh. "Look, I told him, I'll work as fast as I can, but that rear axel was in sorry shape, and I need to forge a new skein.* It'll take time to fix it if he wants it done right. He does want it done right, doesn't he?"

"Of course he does," Roy agreed, "it's just that-"

"He needs the wagon," Charley supplied. "I know. But tell 'im if he needs the wagon, he's gotta do more maintenance on her. Those wheel spindles* are so dry they could give the desert a run for its money. And don't even get me started on the state of the hubs. And the felloes* - if the axel hadn't gone, they would've. The axel just beat 'em to it."

Roy grimaced. "We'll be sure to let him know," he promised.

"If the doc treated his patients like he treats his wagon, they'd all be dead as a doornail. You can tell 'im I said that too. And another thing - you two ain't doing that wagon any favors."

"Not doing it any favors?" Johnny repeated incredulously. "What are you talkin' about? We didn't do anything to that wagon except ride in it!"

"Exactly!" Charley insisted. "The doc never had a problem 'til he hired you two. But more passengers mean more weight, which means more wear and tear on the wagon."

Johnny's jaw dropped and he sputtered. "But…we…how are we supposed to…?"

Johnny's stammered question was cut off by the sound of footsteps at the entrance of Charley's shop, and Roy turned to see Sheriff Stanley headed towards them. He was dressed much as he had been the last time Roy had seen him in town, with his black Gambler hat, tan frock coat, brown trousers and a matching brown vest.

"Howdy, Charley," he greeted. "John, Roy," he added, smiling when he caught sight of them as well. "I'm not interrupting, am I?"

"Nah, not at all," Charley answered before either Roy or Johnny could say a word. "What can I do for ya, Hank?"

"Well," the sheriff answered, reaching into the pocket of his coat and pulling out a large key, "this key unlocks the last cell in the jail. It started stickin' a few days ago. It's not the lock - the spare key works just fine. So, I figured I'd better ask you to take a look at it when you can."

Charley walked closer and took the key from the sheriff, studying it with a practiced eye. "Sure, no problem, Hank. This shouldn't take me more than a couple minutes."

"Oh, and Mike asked-"

Charley cut him off, raising a hand. "Say no more. I'll take care of Big Red. I can shoe him tomorrow if Stoker can make it."

"Big Red?" Roy asked.

"Mike's horse," Johnny explained. "A big chestnut with a red coat."

"Stoker treats him like he oughta be treated," Charley said pointedly.

The sheriff frowned, obviously puzzled, and he glanced over at them curiously.

"The rear axel on the doc's wagon broke a couple of days ago," Roy offered. "Charley says that the doc hasn't been doing enough maintenance on it."

"And apparently, the doc has two passengers too many," Johnny added irritably.

The sheriff glanced between them and the glowering blacksmith.

"Oh," he said at last. "Uh, listen, Charley, if you need to work on the doc's wagon first, we can get along fine with the spare key, and Mike can-"

Charley was already shaking his head. "I told you, this key'll only take a coupla minutes, tops. Do I tell ya how ta protect this town?"

The sheriff blinked. "No, but I just thought-"

"No, of course I don't," Charley continued. "So, do me a favor? Leave the blacksmithin' to me, huh?"

The sheriff raised his hands in surrender. "Alright, alright, you've convinced me. I'll be back for the key before you close up tonight."

He glanced over at them again, offering an apologetic - and slightly sheepish - smile, then he tipped his hat in farewell, and looked back at the shop's irascible owner.

"See ya later, Charley," he said, and turned and started for the doors.

Roy might have found the sheriff's quick exit funny, except that, honestly, he wanted to make one himself.

Johnny seemed to have the same idea.

"Look," he said, starting to walk backwards to the doors, "I'm sure you've gotta get back to work, so…"

"So, we'll tell the doc what you said," Roy chimed in, following his friend. "Let him know he should be patient."

"Yeah…yeah, you do that," Charley agreed.

He turned and started for the forge, already reaching for the bellows to start working them again, a clear dismissal if there ever was one.

"Bye, Charley," Johnny called.

The blacksmith waved a hand in the air without looking back, and Roy and Johnny turned around together, headed straight for the hitching post where their horses waited.

Roy blew out a breath, and started untying his bay. "I hope Charley finishes soon," he muttered. "I don't want to have to come back here."

Johnny nodded. "Yeah. Tell me about it. Maybe  _we'll_  have to start doing maintenance on the wagon. It'd be worth it."

Roy snorted at that, but he didn't argue.

Anything was better than having to face Charley again.

* * *

A few hours later, the business day was almost over, the sun just beginning to set, and Brackett still hadn't returned to the clinic. Roy wasn't really surprised. It had probably taken him a while to convince Edgar Wilkins to cooperate, and Mrs. Gonzales usually insisted on serving coffee before the doc left. That would take long enough even if Brackett had decided against visiting Essie and her mother, who lived farther from town than the others.

There was a little time left in the day, though, so there was still a chance that Brackett would make it back before they closed up for the evening, but Dixie didn't seem to think he would.

"Kel?" she'd laughed. "Stop working before he has to? Not likely."

Dixie was one to talk, and Roy had told her so, with Johnny backing him up. That particular comment had earned them a few halfhearted excuses, and ultimately, the "privilege" of washing the laundry that was left over from Jack Harrison's lengthy stay at the clinic.

It had taken Harrison almost a week to fight off the infection that had raged in his back from that gunshot wound, and almost another full week to get back his strength afterwards.

Remembering Jed Miller, Roy had worried that Harrison's initial reaction to Johnny's presence had been only a sign of things to come, and that once the man was conscious, he would spend the rest of his stay making his opinion known. But, Roy was glad to say that Harrison had proven to be more genial than he'd seemed to be at first.

When he'd finally been well enough to string a few words together, Harrison had told Johnny that was "mighty sorry" if he'd caused any offense, and that he was grateful for Johnny's help - he'd just been surprised to see him working for the doc, since he'd never seen a half-Indian with an interest in "white man's medicine" before. Harrison's apology seemed sincere, and as soon as he'd been fit enough to hold longer conversations, he'd talked to Johnny as easily as he'd talked to everyone else. Johnny certainly didn't seem to hold a grudge, and Roy couldn't find it in himself to still be upset on his friend's behalf. He supposed that if anyone was apt to speak thoughtlessly at a first meeting, it was a man who'd wandered through the desert for two days with a bullet in his back.

He truly did wish Harrison the best, and he hoped that he could get justice at some point. Sheriff Stanley and Deputy Stoker had said that horse thief's trail had disappeared not too long after they'd picked it up, but they'd assured Harrison that they would send word to all of the nearby towns, in case the thief was still in the area. Under the circumstances, Harrison hadn't been able to provide a description of the shooter, but he'd described all of his stolen property, along with his horse, which sported an E brand. Hopefully, something would turn up eventually.

Harrison had finally been well enough to leave the clinic a couple days ago, moving to one of the rooms above the saloon, since the rooms there ran a little cheaper than the ones available in Mrs. Hilliard's boardinghouse. Roy and Johnny had both been there to see him off, happy to see him go, more for his benefit than their own.

That didn't mean they enjoyed washing his laundry, though. But, as soon as Harrison had been over the worst of it, a lot of his care during the day had fallen to Dixie. Brackett had needed to see to other patients, and it had been busy enough that, most of the time, Roy and Johnny had gone with him. Dixie hadn't breathed a word of complaint, but she clearly was worn out, even if she wanted to deny it. So, when they had earned enough of Dixie's wrath that she'd told them to do the rest of the laundry themselves, they'd accepted it without kicking up a fuss. Besides, Roy had teased her, they didn't want any of their skills to get rusty…not after she'd gone to all the trouble of teaching them.

"Aw, would you look at this!" Johnny complained, gingerly lifting a sheet from the unwashed pile and pointing out a yellowish stain. "What is that?!"

"Soup, I think," Roy answered. "Dixie said Harrison spilled some when his hands weren't steady."

"Soup, huh?" Johnny said, making a face. "That better be it."

Roy smirked at his expression, and he'd just opened his mouth to tease him when he heard the first frantic shout.

He and Johnny dropped the laundry without a word and ran around to the front of the clinic together. Dixie appeared a moment later, the clinic's front door swinging open as she burst out onto the boardwalk.

The shouts were coming from down the street, and when Roy squinted against the setting sun, he realized that he could see men streaming out of the doors of the saloon. The saloon was on the end of the next block, offering him an unobstructed view of the west side of the building. From this angle, he could see faint wisps of smoke trailing after the men as they fled, and Roy felt his stomach plummet.

A fire.

When he'd been a boy back in Pennsylvania, the neighbors' house had caught fire in the middle of the night. The family's dog had started barking and woken them up, saving their lives, but a strong, steady wind meant that the family's barn had caught fire too, along with the chicken coup and a small shed. They'd lost everything.

The same thing could happen here in Mud Springs. Most of the buildings were close together, and nearly all of them were made of old, dry wood. Plus, unlike some of the bigger cities back East, there was no dedicated fire brigade to tackle the flames.* He'd heard of entire western towns being wiped out in a single blaze.

He prayed that wouldn't be the case now. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe it wasn't-

"Fire!" he heard someone yell by the saloon, confirming his worst fears. "Fire!"

The call was taken up by a few others, and already, more people were starting to appear in the streets.

Roy was running forward before he'd even thought about it, and Johnny was right there with him. A glance in the direction of the clinic showed him that Dixie had gathered up her skirt and was running towards the saloon as well.

The smoke grew thicker as they got closer, and so did the crowd.

Confusion reigned as worried bystanders gathered and frantic saloon patrons ran to safety, though the flood of frightened men was slowing as the last of them made it outside.

Roy could already see that the saloon's narrow entrance hadn't helped matters - even as their numbers thinned out, the men had been pushing and shoving each other as they tried to escape the burning building. Looking over those who were gathered on the street, he saw a number of bloody noses and split lips, and more than one man was limping.

Roy did a quick headcount, and reached about twenty-five. How many men could fit inside the saloon? How many had been inside when the fire started? Had all of them gotten out?

As if echoing his thoughts, Sheriff Stanley pushed his way through the crowd, his voice suddenly breaking through the din.

"Is everybody outta there? Does anybody know?"

There was a fresh wave of panic as the search began and dozens of voices called over each other in quick succession:

"Hey, anybody seen Davy?"

"Fred! You made it!"

"Jake, you okay?"

"Andrés! Dónde estás?"

"Ben! Boy, am I glad to see you!"

"Emmett? Emmett, where are ya?!"

"Sheriff, I can't find my brother!"

"Andrés no está aquí!"

"Davy ain't here neither!"

"What about the people upstairs?" the sheriff shouted. "Did they get out?"

Roy's stomach lurched again.

Harrison. Was he up there? How many others?

The sides of the building didn't have any sort of visible deck, but the rooms facing the street boasted a shared balcony, with two doors and two windows each. No one was standing on that balcony now, calling for help. No one was yelling out of any of the windows, either. Was that good sign? Did it mean that all the rooms upstairs were empty?

"Ely!" the sheriff called after spotting someone in the crowd. "You rent those rooms! Do you know if anybody's still inside?"

Roy followed the lawman's gaze and found man in his thirties with short dark hair and dark beard. He wore a white shirt with a red satin vest and black pants, and a white apron was tied around his waist. The bartender, Roy realized.

"I…I'm not sure!" the man stammered. "There are six rooms up there…one of 'em's empty right now. And Mason…he's been talkin' about visiting his folks over in Vineland. I think he left this mornin'."

"You think?" the sheriff pressed.

"No…no, I'm sure he did," the bartender said hurriedly. "I don't know about the others, though! Maybe they left too. I didn't see 'em, but it was so busy tonight…I just don't know!"

There was another clamor as the crowd tallied the missing. It seemed like four were unaccounted in the saloon crowd, and if four more were still upstairs…

"Alright, everybody listen!" the sheriff shouted again, his words carrying up and down the street. "It sounds like we've got people in there, and we'll try to get to them! But we've gotta this fire out too! Grab all the buckets you can find!* Then, I want two lines leading right up to the saloon doors and all the way back to the water barrels by the livery! Men, women, anyone who's able-bodied and can pass a bucket! One line will pass the buckets back to the barrels to be refilled, the other will pass 'em up to throw on the fire!"

The sheriff's commanding tone finally prevailed over the chaos, and gradually, the crowd started to obey.

"That's it!" the sheriff encouraged as two lines began to form. "Line up, right there!"

Roy joined the gathering and Johnny stayed by his side. Dixie wasn't far behind.

Some of the women started to shepherd the youngest children away from the danger, and a few of those who were elderly or less able-bodied moved to join them. But, other than that, and a handful of injured saloon patrons who seemed to be in too much pain to help, most chose to stay and others were still arriving.

The lines were growing.

"Mike!" the sheriff called.

Deputy Stoker materialized from the crowd.

"These barrels aren't gonna be enough! We'll need more water!"

"Got it, Sheriff," Stoker said quickly. "Bill," he said, turning to the man standing next to him, "can we use your wagon?"

Bill Bryant*, the owner of the General Store, nodded readily. "Of course. I have some empty barrels you can use too, and I'll come with you - you're gonna need some help."

Stoker quickly gathered a small group of other volunteers and hurried off collect the additional water. It was a trip that he and the others would probably need to make many times.

"Men," the sheriff called again, his attention shifting back to the crowd, "I'm gonna need some more volunteers inside the saloon! We have to get that water right on those flames or we won't stand a chance! Who's with me?"

Roy didn't hesitate - he stepped forward, and he wasn't at all surprised that once again, Johnny was right there with him.

They weren't alone.

Chet Kelly and Marco Lopez appeared just across from him and Johnny, and there others Roy recognized as well. He spotted Charlie Dwyer who owned a farm not too far from Brackett's place, and Tom Wheeler who worked at the assayer's office. He was surprised to see Craig Brice, the town banker, and next to him was Bob Bellingham who worked in the livery. Finally, there was Walter Hookrader, an old military man who, like the sheriff, had served as a Union Captain during the war, and Ed Marlowe, another war veteran who'd spent time serving in the medical tents.

The sheriff looked them all over and then nodded. "Okay. We're gonna need some men to look for the missing while we hit that fire. Roy, John, what about you two? If anybody's hurt, you've got the best chance of helping 'em."

Roy didn't have to think about his answer. "I'll do it."

It wasn't until after he'd spoken that he realized Johnny had chorused those words with him.

A fleeting smile flashed over the sheriff's face and then he was calling out to the townspeople once again. "Give each of these men a bucket! We'll take the water right to the fire!"

Immediately, a clamor rose as the townspeople started to send buckets to the front, trying to make sure there were enough to supply every volunteer.

"Fellas," the sheriff continued loudly, speaking to the volunteers over the noise, "use whatever you've got to cover your nose and mouth! Something you can tie around your head to keep your hands free - a shirt, a bandana, anything! Whatever you're gonna use, go over to the barrels and get it wet before you put it on! It's not much, but it oughta help some with the smoke!* When you're ready, take a bucket and fill it to the brim!"

The lines of townspeople parted as the group of volunteers ran over to the barrels. Roy was suddenly thankful for the blue bandana he had tied around his neck that morning. He loosened the knot and yanked it off, then he tugged up the sleeves of his brown jacket, and dunked the bandana in the nearest barrel. He tried not to waste any water, but a few, small drops still landed on the brown cloth of his trousers. He wrung the bandana out just enough so that it wasn't dripping, then tied it around his head, the long end of the fabric resting on the bridge of his nose and just below his eyes.

He turned to find that Johnny had done the same with his own red bandana. Their gazes met for a moment, and Roy didn't have to guess what his friend was thinking. There was a firm resolve in Johnny's expression that he knew to be reflected in his own.

A second later, someone was pressing an empty bucket into his hands, and he blinked in surprise to find that it was Dixie.

She gave him a small, strained smile. "You and Johnny be careful," she told him.

Roy hoped that Dixie knew he was giving her a smile of his own behind the bandana. "We will," he promised.

He plunged the bucket into the rain barrel, filling it completely, then hurried back to where the sheriff was waiting, a bandana already tied over his face and a bucket full of water held at his side.

Soon, Johnny and the others were finished as well, and they gathered around Sheriff Stanley once again.

"Ready?" he asked.

Every man nodded.

The sheriff tugged down his bandana and called out to the lines, "Start passing up the rest of those buckets! We'll need more of that water in a minute!" Then he replaced the bandana and looked at the men around him once more. "Alright, let's go."

With that, Sheriff Stanley turned and started walking toward the saloon, his long strides carrying him quickly across the street, the rest of the group just a short distance behind him.

A moment later, they reached the saloon's batwing doors where an ominous, orange glow was just becoming visible through the wooden slats.

The sheriff himself was the first to disappear inside, his tall figure vanishing in the smoke, those batwing doors swinging behind him.

Roy drew one, last deep breath, and then followed.

**TBC**

* * *

Historical and Content Notes

**Dime Novels** : The first dime novel was published in 1860, when "the publishers Erastus and Irwin Beadle released a new series of cheap paperbacks,  _Beadle's Dime Novels_." (Wikipedia). At the time of the Civil War, literacy was increasing, and the books "were immediately popular among young, working-class readers." Naturally, the books themselves cost ten cents. (Wikipedia.)

 **Skein** : On a wagon, a skein, also called a "thimble skein," is "a hollow metal cone tightly fitted over the axle end." (Source: wheelsthatwonthewest (d o t) blogspot (d o t) com, "Questions on Wagon Skeins.")

 **Wheel Spindles** : A spindle is "a part of the suspension system that carries the hub for the wheel" (Wikipedia). These spindles required grease, and in the Old West, "Meat grease lubrication was kept at a minimum because of its short supply, but history also records that in emergencies, fatback - today's bacon - was sliced and wrapped around wheel spindles as a lubricant." (Source: farmcollector (d o t) com, "Early Wagon Tools: Jacks and Oils for Wheel Maintenance.")

 **Felloes** : A felloe is "a segment or the whole rim of a wooden wheel to which the spokes are attached." (thefreedictionary(d ot) com, "Felloe.")

" **No dedicated fire brigade to tackle the flames"** : There is a long history of organized fire fighting in the United States, but in the time of the Old West, the frontier was usually far less organized and well-supplied than the East. Water was also usually far more scarce, and making conditions even more dangerous, "The first generation of buildings and houses in those western towns were usually made of wood." (Source: truewestmagazine (d o t) com, "Hot Times in Hillside Boom Towns.") Given that many buildings were heated by wood-burning stoves, and oil lamps or candles were used to produce light, this was a disastrous combination. "In fact, almost every town or country school in the Old West burned or partially burned at least once during its history." (Source: Texasescapes (d o t)com, "Old West fires often impossible to tame.")

 **Fire Buckets** : Western towns always tried to keep as much water on hand as possible - usually in barrels or other containers - and they also kept a large supply of buckets available so that they could form a bucket brigade when necessary. There was only one problem: "[Wooden buckets] were so handy they often mysteriously disappeared. When a fire started, it was usually out of hand before enough buckets could be gathered up to form an effective bucket brigade." (Source: Texasescapes (d o t)com, "Old West fires often impossible to tame.") To solve this issue, "Manufacturers invented a unique metal bucket with a bulging round bottom. Called a fire brigade bucket, it would not sit up without turning over and was useless for domestic purposes. However, held by the bail in hand it could be used in a fire brigade line for tossing water onto the fire. Towns bought these buckets by the dozen, keeping them hanging on the water barrels." (Source: same as above.)

 **Bill Bryant** : The real Bill Bryant was an actor who had many supporting roles on a number of famous television shows during the 60s and 70s, including several westerns. He even appeared alongside Robert Fuller in  _Laramie_ , playing various roles. On  _Emergency_ , he was often cast as a Captain, though, as far as I can tell, the station number never seemed to be the same from episode to episode. (You might recognize him as the Captain of Station 86, when Roy and Johnny are trapped there in the season 6 episode, "Isolation.") Sadly, Bill Bryant passed away in 2001. I couldn't resist including a small tribute to him in this fic.

 **A Wet Bandana** : A wet bandana will not actually stop smoke inhalation, though it was about the best that fire fighters in the Old West might have hoped for. In fact, in the very early years of fire fighting, "many fire departments required their men to grow full beards," so that they could wet down their beards and breathe through them (fireengineering (d o t) com, "History of Respiratory Protection in the Fire Service.") The "earliest reference to a device that dealt with protection on a scientific basis" was the "Apparatus Aldini" from 1825, though it wasn't very successful, and over the next 100 years, there were "many, sometimes weird, versions of supplied air respirators, filter masks, and self-contained apparatus." (Source: same as above.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Again, the next chapter should, Lord willing, be up in a few days. :) Thank you so much for reading, and please let me know what you think! Take care and God bless!


	8. By Hook or Crook

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I've said it before, but thank you again to everyone who is reading, and especially those who are reviewing! Every single review is incredibly appreciated. :) I'm sorry, also, that this update wasn't faster than the last one! My beta was a bit under the weather this time, and she's always great about reading whenever she can, but I didn't want to ask anything from her until she was feeling better. :)
> 
> As always, I thank my Lord Jesus Christ for his incredible mercy and grace and his many blessings. I would be utterly lost without him. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy this, and please let me know what you think!

** Frontier Medicine **

Chapter 8: By Hook or Crook

Roy's first impression was heat. A lot of it.

In the next instant, the world was a strange mix of darkness and impossibly bright, red-orange light. The red-orange light - a wall of flame, Roy realized - took up most of the bar, and the flames were growing steadily, making their way towards the ceiling, just beginning reach the wooden planks there. The rest of the already dark room had been plunged into a murky blackness from the smoke.

He could just make out the sheriff's dark silhouette moving in front of the blaze, and he followed that shape until he was right behind him. Someone did the same thing behind him a moment later, and he didn't stop to look - he wouldn't have seen much even if he had - but he knew it was Johnny.

The sheriff thrust his bucket forward, sending the water onto the fire. It struck with a hiss, and Roy threw his a moment later. The others must have been close by, because soon, more water was hitting the flames.

But then the deluge stopped, and it was disheartening to see how little difference it had made. The flames seemed no smaller, and as soon as the water ran out, they raged just as strongly as they had before.

"Pass the empty buckets out!" the sheriff ordered, yelling to be heard over the roar of the flames.

Roy hadn't realized how loud the fire was until that moment.

But somehow, he still heard it: a groan.

Johnny must have caught it too, because a moment later, he felt a tap on his shoulder. "Roy! You hear that?!"

"Yeah!"

"Sheriff!" Johnny called. "We think we heard somebody!"

"Okay!" the sheriff shouted back. "Pass off your empty buckets and see if you can find 'em!"

Roy wasn't sure who he gave his empty bucket to, but as soon as he held out that bucket, someone else took it from his hands, and in the light of fire, he could just make out the two, shadowy lines the men had formed to match the ones outside. Already, fresh buckets were coming up one side.

Turning from the others, Roy took a step forward, away from the fire, and tried to see through the smoke.

"Hello?!" he called. "Can you hear me?!"

He would have said more, but instead, he found himself coughing, the acrid smoke reaching him even through the wet bandana.

"Is anybody there?" Johnny yelled after him. The words were followed by a few coughs on Johnny's part as well.

There was another groan, and then a few harsh coughs joined theirs. That was good enough to give them a direction, at least.

"By the poker table!" Johnny called.

Roy could see Johnny's hazy silhouette moving in that direction, and he followed, trusting his friend's knowledge of the saloon more than his own.

They bumped into three of the tables as they crossed the room, but managed to make their way around them by feel, until at last they reached the source of the noise they had heard.

The poker table was a thick, rectangular piece of wood with rounded edges. As Roy felt along the top of it, his hand brushed a stack of poker chips* and some scattered cards, probably left over from the game that had been interrupted. His hand bumped an abandoned glass next, and he backed up a little, searching until he found what felt like the back of a chair, then he crouched down, using that as a guide.

"Hello?"

"He-lp," a voice rasped.

Roy reached out, under the table, and his fingers brushed against a leg. Immediately, someone's hand snagged his sleeve, clutching the fabric tightly.

"Easy, we'll get you out!" Roy promised, already starting pull the man forward.

"Hey, Roy, I found another one!" Johnny called from what sounded like the other side of the table. "He's unconscious."

"Can you get him by yourself?"

"Yeah, I think so!"

Roy's attention was pulled back to the man he was helping when he heard him yelp in pain.

"My-my ankle," the man gasped out, "I think it's broke!"

"Here," Roy said, "put your arm around my shoulders, and lean on me."

The man's arm wrapped around his shoulders, and Roy drew back, suddenly grateful for the experience he'd gotten when helping Brackett move patients. The man was unsteady, his muscles shaking with every movement, and Roy was close enough to hear the rasping noise he was making as he breathed. With a little maneuvering though, Roy managed to get him out from underneath the table and back upright, standing on his good leg.

"Johnny?" Roy called, looking over his shoulder and finding Johnny's silhouette in the smoke, the backdrop of the fire behind him. "You okay?!"

"I'm fine!" Johnny answered. His voice was strained, but Roy could see that he was on his feet, a bulky-looking form draped over his back. "Let's go!"

Roy nodded, and peered through the smoke once again. He could just make out a hazy spot of light that had to be the entrance, and he started forward, supporting the injured man next to him as much as he could. They bumped into a few more of the tables, but gradually, the dim light grew brighter, and he could once again see the shadowy shapes of the men who were still battling the blaze by the bar.

"We've got some injured men here!" Roy shouted.

The others stepped aside to let them pass, and seconds later, Roy found himself back out in the cool, evening air. The cold was almost a shock, and immediately, he started to cough even harder than before, as though his lungs had suddenly remembered what they'd been missing.

He could hear Johnny's footsteps behind him, and soon, he was coughing too.

The man at Roy's side was far worse, though. He doubled over, gasping and choking, giving harsh, guttural coughs that left no doubt about how long he'd lain there in the smoke.

Suddenly, helping hands were reaching out to them. Roy couldn't make out the faces of the people those hands belonged to because his eyes were watering, partly from the acrid smoke still lingering around him, and partly from the force of the coughs still wracking his chest. But, soon enough, those helping hands had taken the injured men from them, carrying them to the boardwalk across the street from the saloon, and setting them down on the rough, wooden planks.

Roy pulled down the bandana he wore, and drew in a few deeper breaths without the fabric in the way. When the coughs began to ease, Roy managed to blink away the involuntary moisture in his eyes, and he caught a glimpse of Dixie as she left the bucket brigade and hurried across the street to examine the rescued men.

Hopefully, she'd have more patients to care for soon. Roy didn't want to think about the alternative - that by the time he and Johnny found them, some of the missing men would already be beyond help.

Pushing those thoughts away, Roy took as deep a breath as his irritated lungs would allow, and then he pulled his bandana back up. His gaze landed on Johnny who was standing a few feet away, his own bandana already back in place. Johnny caught his stare and gave him a nod, and together, they turned and headed for the batwing doors once more. The lines broke apart just long enough to let them through, then reformed as soon as they were inside.

The heat seemed more intense than it had before, and a quick glance at the bar showed why. The fire was spreading. It stretched out from the bar now, spreading along the ceiling and the floor, moving in the direction of the staircase at the back of the saloon.

If there really were men trapped on the second floor, and the fire reached those stairs…

But that was another train of thought Roy couldn't risk. They weren't even sure that anybody was actually up there. Their first priority had to be the men that they  _knew_ were missing, the ones from the saloon itself, and they just couldn't spare anyone else to search the upstairs right now. A bucket brigade only worked if there were enough people to keep the water flowing steadily.

Roy reached up to cup his hands in front of his mouth, hoping that it would help his voice carry through the bandana.

"Hello?" he yelled. "If you can hear me, make some noise and we'll find you!"

He waited a long moment, and he sensed Johnny doing the same beside him. But there was no answer this time, no noise that they could follow.

"How 'bout we start at the front and work our way back?" Johnny suggested, raising his voice to be heard over the roar of the flames.

"Yeah!" Roy agreed.

Peering through the smoke once more, Roy managed to find the hazy light that was shining through the saloon's front window. There wasn't much - outside, the sun was sinking steadily behind the horizon, and the light was rapidly fading with it. But, there was still enough that Roy could just make out the window's shape, so he began his search there, on the side closest to the door.

Johnny followed, though unlike Roy, he moved away from the entrance. Hopefully, between the two of them, they'd be able to cover both halves of the room. They kept calling out as they went - as much as they could in the choking smoke - but still, there was no answer. Roy didn't really expect one at this point, but he wasn't willing to give up either.

Figuring that the missing men might have done the same thing that the first two had, seeking shelter wherever they could, Roy went through the room table by table. He would find the wooden surface by feel, and then he crouched down to probe the space beneath it. His heart sunk a little lower every time his hand found only empty air.

"Anything?!" Johnny asked, the words trailing off into a series of harsh coughs.

"No, nothing!" Roy answered, choking back some coughs of his own.

They kept going. To his left, Roy could see the shadowy figures of the Sheriff and the others who were still working desperately to fight the flames. The lines were working quickly, sending up bucket after bucket, and the flames were hissing each time the water struck them, but it clearly wasn't enough. The fire was simply too large to be tamed by anything less than a steady stream of water, but while Roy had seen some fire hoses back in Pennsylvania, a small town like Mud Springs didn't have a single hose to its name.* There was nothing they could do that they weren't  _already_  doing.

That sense of helplessness only grew as they drew closer to the flames at the back of the room. The heat grew as well, and Roy felt sweat beading on his forehead and running down his face, adding to the dampness of the bandana.

But the growing fire gave them one advantage - it offered them enough light to see by, and in the red-orange glow, Roy's eyes could finally make out the back of the room. A few of the smaller tables and chairs had been turned over, probably in the mad rush the saloon patrons had made for the door, and sticking out from behind one of those tables, Roy spotted a dark shape: a foot.

"Hey, over there!"

Johnny must have been able to see where he was pointing because he started moving in that direction too.

They reached the unconscious man at the same time, Roy stopping at his feet while Johnny stopped at his head. Roy couldn't see all that much of him, but in the light of the flames, he looked young, and Roy thought that he could see blond hair. The man was motionless, and Roy couldn't tell whether or not he was breathing. That would have to wait until they were outside. He and Johnny had just started to lift him, when Johnny suddenly stilled, his eyes focused on something else.

"Roy, look!"

He did, and there, a few feet away, hidden in a dark corner, slumped against the wall, was a second man.

"I'll get him!" Johnny said. "You take this one!"

"Okay!" Roy agreed.

He pulled the man up into a sitting position, then draped his limp body across his shoulders. He hooked his right arm around one of the man's legs, keeping him steady when he stood up.

He could see Johnny doing the same with the other man. As soon as he was back on his feet, Roy turned and started for the door once again. The weight of the unmoving man on his back made for a slower trip, and Roy could feel his lungs straining even more with the effort.

"Coming through!" he heard Johnny yell to the men in the bucket brigade. Even over the noise of the fire, Johnny's voice sounded hoarse.

The men parted in front of them, and they stepped outside. The cool air was just as much of a shock as it had been before, and Roy struggled to breathe, his chest aching with the force of his coughs as his body tried to clear his lungs.

This time, when helping hands reached out to them, he and Johnny were led across the street to where Dixie waited. She took one look at them and ordered them both to sit down. Roy didn't resist. He dropped down onto the rough, wooden planks of the boardwalk and leaned forward, pulling down the bandana he wore, trying to draw in as much air as he could. Johnny was sitting a few feet away, his own bandana now dangling around his neck, coughs still shaking his slim frame.

Their job finished, the men who had helped them across the street all hurried back to rejoin bucket brigade. Dixie didn't bother to thank them as they left. Instead, her gaze was raking over Roy from head to toe.

"I'm okay," Roy insisted roughly.

When her worried gaze turned to Johnny, he held up a hand as if to ward off the fear on his behalf.

"I'm fine," Johnny echoed hoarsely.

Dixie didn't look like she believed either of them, but she knew as well as they did that their conditions weren't serious enough to merit her attention right now, not when there were other men who were clearly much worse.

Roy's gaze moved a little ways down the boardwalk to where the rescued men had been laid out. Dixie had asked the men helping her to lean all three unconscious victims against the nearest building, keeping them up in a sitting position and tilting their heads back, trying to keep their airways clear as much as possible.

The only conscious man - the man Roy had found underneath the poker table - was resting up against one of the wooden pillars, his bad leg stretched out in front of him as he tried to catch his breath. He looked to be in his early fifties, with thinning hair, a lined face, and the beginnings of a scruffy beard. He wore a faded orange shirt, a brown vest, and brown pants, though the smoke had left them with a grayish tinge.

The second man that had been under that poker table, well…if he'd ever wondered about how strong Johnny's wiry frame was, this put his doubts to rest. The man had to be at least a couple inches taller than either of them, and he was built like a bull. His brown hair was slicked back and fell a little above his collar. He had a broad face with a large chin and nose, and he wore a gray shirt with black suspenders and light brown pants. He was still unconscious, and the evening sky offered Roy just enough light to see a smear of blood on his temple. Had someone managed to get the better of him as the men were fighting their way out of the saloon? It was hard to imagine anyone being able to fight against somebody that big, but then again, terror and desperation could give even a small man almost supernatural strength.

The last two men they had rescued looked to be in even worse shape.

The one Johnny had carried out was a Mexican man with a sparse, gray beard, and thick, dark eyebrows. He wore a white shirt with a dark brown vest, and matching, dark brown pants. His chest seemed to stutter as it rose and fell. The man Roy had brought out was as young as Roy had thought, with short, blond hair and a clean-shaven face. His green-striped shirt and brown pants were streaked with ash, and his face had a worrying bluish cast.

Knowing that Dixie had her hands full with the two patients she had already, Roy pushed himself up from the boardwalk and walked the short distance to the younger blond, then he leaned forward and rested his ear against the man's chest to listen to his breathing. Even without the aid of one of the stethoscopes Brackett owned,* Roy could hear quite a bit of wheezing, and every breath was more shallow than it should have been.

A short distance away, Johnny was already moving to examine the Mexican. His grim expression as he worked told Roy that his prognosis didn't look any more promising than the younger man's.

There wasn't much they could do for them, either…nothing they could really offer to improve their breathing. Ipecac worked as an expectorant, but the men would have to be conscious for them to be able to use that safely - an unconscious person couldn't cough, so using Ipecac now would only cause them to aspirate. Still, even if they  _were_  awake, coughing alone might not be enough. The way Brackett had explained it, the problem with smoke exposure was not only that it created mucus in the lungs, it also made the air passages swell. Paregoric* could relax the muscles in the throat, but that would do nothing to clear the mucus from their lungs. Right now, the men just needed clean air, and a lot of it. Unfortunately, it looked like they weren't gonna be able to draw in enough of that air to do them any good.

One look at Dixie was enough to tell him that her thoughts were similar.

She had just finished checking on the conscious man with the injured ankle, and was now standing behind them now, waiting to hear their assessments of the two other men.

"How are they doing?" she asked.

Roy sighed. "This man has a rapid heartbeat and a congested chest."

"This one's the same," Johnny interjected. "I'm hearing a lot of wheezing."

Dixie nodded, unsurprised, her mouth set in an unhappy line. She started to say something, but a low moan interrupted her, and she turned towards the source of the noise - the large man with the head injury. She walked the few, short steps needed to close the distance between them, then lifted her skirt a little so that she could kneel down beside the man's prone form.

"Sir?" she asked, reaching forward to shake him gently. "Can you hear me?"

The man moaned loudly, and soon, his moans turned into a violent coughs and his eyes snapped open. His arms were swinging up and out before either Roy or Johnny could react, and one of those meaty fists found a target.

"Dixie!" Roy cried.

But it was too late.

The man's knuckles struck the side of her head, and Dixie gave a short cry, falling back limply onto the boardwalk.

**TBC**

* * *

Historical and Content Notes

**Poker Chips** : Poker chips weren't very common in the early 1800s. In fact, many players used "[t]hings like tiny nuggets of gold - and even gold dust." (Source: cards chat (d o t) com, "The History of Poker Chips.") But, it soon became clear that there needed to be some sort of standardized system, and some saloons and gaming houses started to use a system of chips. Those that did, "created their own standardized substitutes - pieces of ivory, bones, and clay. Unfortunately, these 'standards' were easy to forge, so the gambling houses began to brand those pieces of ivory, bones, and clay with unique symbols and attributes." (Source: same as above.) Then, by the 1880s, "companies started creating clay composition poker chips, giving birth to an entire industry and ultimately changing the way the world played poker." (Source: same as above.)

 **Fire Hoses** : The first fire hose was invented in 1673 by "Dutch painter, inventor, and printmaker, Jan van der Heyden and his son." (Source: rawhidefirehose (d o t) com, "A Brief History of Fire Hose.") Later, in 1821, "James Boyd patented rubber lined, woven jacketed fire hose." (Source: same as above.) But, as mentioned in previous notes, such advanced fire fighting equipment was rarely found in the West, especially in small towns.

 **Stethoscopes** : The first stethoscope was invented in 1816, by "René Laennec at the Necker-Enfants Malades Hospital in Paris." (Wikipedia.) Though Civil War era stethoscopes looked somewhat different from modern stethoscopes, they were similar to what we see today, and doctors used them extensively as part of physical examinations and diagnosis. This is "documented in regimental and divisional field hospitals, as well as general hospitals." (Source: medical antiques (d o t) com, "Stethoscopes and the Civil War.")

 **Paregoric** : Paregoric, also called Camphorated Tincture of Opium, was created to treat asthma early in the 18th century. It's original recipe contained "'honey, licorice, flowers of Benjamin, and opium, camphor, oil of aniseed, salt of tartar and spirit of wine.'" (Wikipedia.) Then, "in the 18th and 19th centuries...it was widely used to control diarrhea in adults and children, [and] as an expectorant and cough medicine." (Wikipedia.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hopefully, there won't be any delays in posting the next chapter. :) 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, and please let me know what you think! 
> 
> Take care and God bless!
> 
> -Laughter


	9. A Close Shave

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I'm saying this far too often, but I'm sorry for the delay in posting! This time, as I was going through the final review of the chapter, I found a couple things that I wanted to adjust, which took up a couple more days.

** Frontier Medicine **

Chapter 9: A Close Shave

Dixie wasn't moving.

That was Roy's first thought as the man thrashed again. Roy sprang up to grab one of his arms before he hit Dixie a second time, and Johnny took the other arm, but he wasn't having any more luck than Roy was - it was like trying to wrestle a bear, and an angry bear at that.

Up close, the man smelled like he'd downed at least a few of the saloon's finest vintages, and the alcohol, the head wound, and the effects of the smoke were all making him disoriented.

"Out!" he screamed, coughing and choking. "Gotta…gotta ge' out!"

His legs flailed as he bucked.

"We need some help over here!" Roy yelled to the bucket brigade.

The sound of rapid footsteps was his answer, and then four other men joined the struggle. Roy didn't look to see who the men were. He was too busy trying to keep a hold on the arm that he had his hands wrapped around.

"Hey, it's okay!" Johnny yelled, trying to get through to the frantic man. "You're out! Do you hear me? You're out!"

It was hard to say if Johnny had finally reached him, or if his body was simply running out of the energy to fight, but eventually his struggles slowed. As soon as it was clear that the giant of a man was mostly back under control, Roy asked one of the others to take his place and hurried over to Dixie.

"Dixie?" he asked, kneeling down at her side.

She didn't react.

Roy's throat was tight as he gently rolled her over.

"Dixie?" he tried again. "Can you hear me?"

Nothing.

He could see that her chest was rising and falling in a regular rhythm, but it was still a relief when his fingers brushed her neck and he felt the steady beating of her heart. He reached up to gently run his fingers over Dixie's scalp, searching for an injury, and he found himself hoping that his touch - or the pain, if he found a particularly tender spot - would bring her around, but it didn't. Dixie's eyes stayed closed and her features were just as lax as before.

"How is she?" Johnny asked, appearing next to him.

Roy frowned. "Pulse and breathing are a little slow, but they're steady. She definitely has a head injury, but I don't feel anything - no cuts, not even a bump."

Johnny nodded in understanding, his expression a mix of relief and frustration.

Roy knew that the same emotions were reflected on his own face. He hadn't found any sign that Dixie's injuries would put her in immediate danger, and he was grateful for that, just like Johnny was, but as things stood now, there wasn't anything that they could treat. All they could really do was wait for Dixie's body to mend itself.*

"Will Mrs. Brackett be alright?"

Roy looked up to find Deputy Stoker standing in front of him. Three others were behind him, standing guard around the disoriented man who'd fallen unconscious once again. Roy recognized them as some of the men who'd volunteered to fetch more water. Stoker and the others must have returned while they were inside the saloon. He and Johnny were lucky that they'd been close by.

"As far as we can tell, she should be okay," Roy told the deputy. "But she's unconscious and we have no way to know how long that will last." His stomach dropped for the second time that day as he realized something else. "What about Doctor Brackett? Is he here yet?"

Stoker frowned. "I've only been back a couple minutes, but I haven't seen him."

"He'd be right here with Dixie if he was close by," Johnny pointed out.

Roy knew he was right. He glanced back over at the deputy.

"The doc is out of town, visiting some patients," he explained. "When he sent us back here, he said it could be a while, and told us that if it got late, he'd just head home. If you can spare somebody, send them to his place to wait for him. We're gonna need him, and he'll wanna know about Dixie."

Stoker nodded. "Right now, we need just about everybody we've got for the bucket brigade, but I'll see if I can find someone."

"Alright," Roy replied. "And, if you can, tell the Sheriff that he and the others shouldn't stay inside much longer. They've breathed in a lot of smoke already. They take in too much, and they won't be in any better shape than the men we're treating now."

Stoker nodded grimly. "I'll let them know. I'll see if I can gather a new round of volunteers, too."

The deputy turned and hurried back towards the bucket brigade. The three other men who'd helped subdue the largest of their patients followed behind him, retaking their places in the line.

Stoker himself ran up to the doors of the saloon, calling out a warning for the sheriff about the smoke. An acknowledgment was shouted back, along with a message that Roy couldn't hear, but those who were closer obviously did, judging by the worried murmur that swept through the crowd.

Stoker, for his part, didn't react. He only called out a request for more volunteers to head inside. They were lucky - news of the fire was already spreading, and more people continued to arrive. Roy even spotted Dick Hammer, who was the respected owner of a sizable farm, and John Smith, whose ranch served as a relay station for the stage coach.*

When they had a new group of men ready to take the place of those inside - Dick Hammer and John Smith among them - Deputy Stoker sent them over to the barrels to soak their bandanas in the water, and then stopped briefly to talk to Vince Howard, who seemed to have been given the task of keeping the brigade line organized. Stoker nodded briefly in answer to whatever Vince had said, and then jogged back over to the other side of the street.

"Vince says that he talked to the men who are friends with the missing," the deputy explained. "These men you're seeing to all match the descriptions he got, so that should be everyone from the saloon."

"What about upstairs?" Johnny asked. "Do we know yet if anyone's trapped there?"

"Vince said that two of the men who rent rooms there showed up a few minutes ago. They weren't inside when the fire started, so that leaves two others unaccounted for. They could be upstairs, but they might not be. There's no way to be sure."

"Do you know who they are?" Roy wondered.

"Jack Harrison and Danny Lane."

Roy felt a pang of worry at the news that Jack Harrison was one of the men still missing. He'd recovered enough from his gunshot wound to leave the clinic, but he still had a good bit of healing to do. If he was upstairs, the smoke exposure would hit him hard. And Lane…it took Roy a moment to place the name. Lane was the one who'd taunted Johnny outside of the saloon all those weeks ago.

Roy looked over at Johnny. What ever enmity he felt towards Lane was absent from his expression. In his eyes, Roy could see nothing but the same awful certainty he had: if anybody  _was_  still in that building, they were in serious trouble.

"The sheriff sent the news that the fire's spreading, closing in on the staircase," Stoker added. "He doesn't think anybody can get up that way."

Roy saw Johnny frown, and he watched as his friend's gaze raked over the front of the building.

"What about trying to get in there from outside?" Johnny asked at last. "If we can find a ladder that's tall enough, we could use the doors on the balcony."

Stoker nodded. "I was thinkin' the same thing. The Livery has a ladder that oughta work. They use it for patching their roof. I'll send some men to get it as soon as I can."

Stoker was once again as good as his word, and a few minutes later, a group of men headed down the street towards the Livery. By then, the new volunteers were ready to head into the saloon. The men inside left one at a time, starting from the back of the line, one man leaving and then a new man taking his place, up to the head of the line, closest to the fire itself. That meant that Sheriff Stanley was the last to leave, but Roy was sure that the Sheriff wouldn't have had it any other way. (He was just as unsurprised that Dick Hammer was the one who took Sheriff Stanley's place inside.)

As the original volunteers moved back out into the street, it was easy to guess where they had been in the line. They were all streaked with ash, but those closest to the door were noticeably less soot-covered than those who'd been farther inside. Roy caught sight of Marco and Chet, both of whom were coated in a thick layer of black grime. Craig Brice and Bob Bellingham had obviously been closer to the fire as well, because for a moment, they both doubled over, coughing hard. When Brice couldn't seem to catch his breath, Bob gave him a hard slap on the back.

Still, Roy was relieved that while all the men were coughing roughly - some worse than others - none of them seemed to be in terribly desperate shape. They were all moving under their own power, and no one looked disoriented or particularly unsteady.

Vince Howard, who was making his way up and down the bucket brigade line, directed the weary volunteers across the street, and together, Roy and Johnny gave each man a quick examination, checking their pulse and breathing.

"I feel like I stuck me head in a chimney an' left it there," Chet said when Roy reached him, the rasp in his voice making his brogue even thicker. "Makes me pity the 'sweeps back 'ome."

"Si," Marco hoarsely agreed as Johnny finished looking him over. "The smoke es muy terrible."

The Sheriff, unsurprisingly, seemed to be the worst off, with some fairly loud wheezing, but despite that, his color wasn't too bad, and he seemed to still be able to draw in enough air.

Roy was about to ask him how he was feeling when the Sheriff's eyes found Dixie's prone form on the boardwalk.

"What happened?"

The demand would have probably been harsher if his voice hadn't been so hoarse, but there was no mistaking the worry in his tone.

"One of the men we pulled out woke up pretty disoriented," Johnny explained. "He clipped her on the side of the head."

"Will she be alright?"

"We think so," Roy assured, "but she hasn't woken up yet, and there's no telling when she will."

The Sheriff's brow furrowed. "Brackett?" he asked.

"He's outside of town, visiting patients."

The Sheriff looked as happy about that as Roy was. As eager as Roy had been to do the job Brackett had hired him for, he'd never imagined a situation like this one, and right now, he wanted nothing more than to see Brackett striding down the street with his medical bag in-hand.

"Maurice Thompson volunteered to wait for the doc at his place," Stoker interjected, appearing at the Sheriff's side. He glanced over at Roy. "He'll tell him about Mrs. Brackett, and he'll speak to Mrs. DeSoto while he's there, too, let her know what's going on."

Roy gave the deputy a grateful smile - truth be told, with the firefight at the forefront of his mind, he hadn't even thought about sending word to Joanne and the children. There wouldn't have been time, even if he had. So, the deputy's foresight and Thompson's kindness were doubly appreciated.

He tried to recall what he knew about Maurice Thompson, having only met the man in passing. Thompson was an old miner who'd been hurt years ago when a mine shaft collapsed. From what Roy had heard, the accident had shattered Thompson's right shoulder badly enough that the arm hadn't been of much use to him since then. He managed alright most of the time, and he could still ride a horse, but he definitely wouldn't have fared well in a bucket brigade.

"Thompson was out behind General Store with a few others," Stoker added. "Some of the women are looking after the youngest children there, and caring for the men who were hurt too badly to help with the lines."

That was welcome news, Roy thought, remembering the injuries he'd seen while the saloon patrons were fleeing out into the street.

"They ready to move out from the store if they have to?" the sheriff asked, a few harsh coughs punctuating the question.

"They are," Stoker assured. "And we'll make sure they have enough warning if it comes down to it."

Sheriff Stanley nodded grimly, then looked over at the rescued men who were still leaning up against the building, and Dixie, who had been laid carefully on her side.

"Roy, John, what do you think? Should we put these fellas and Nurse Dixie over there too?"

Roy thought for a moment, then glanced over at Johnny who gave a nod of his own.

"Yeah, that's probably best," Roy agreed.

"Are you two going with them," the Sheriff asked, his eyes suddenly focused on something across the street, "or are you planning to try to head back in?"

Roy followed the sheriff's gaze to see the Livery's large, wooden ladder being propped up against the saloon's second story balcony.

He stared at that ladder for a moment, then looked back at the patients they had already. There wasn't really much that he and Johnny could do for them.* The man with the broken ankle needed to have his leg splinted, but that could wait for the time being, and the three unconscious men and Dixie just needed to be watched. Still, Roy couldn't deny that a part of him would have preferred to stay with their patients anyway.

But another part of him knew that if the two, missing men really were upstairs, they were bound to be in rough shape. Sure, maybe they were so far gone that it wouldn't matter  _who_  pulled them out. Someone else could search the second floor. But, if there was even just the slightest chance that he and Johnny could make a difference for those men, then it had to be them. It had to be.

He turned to Johnny again, ready to ask if he would go with him, only to find that his friend's gaze was locked on the ladder just like his own had been.

"What do you think?" Johnny asked. "Start from the front and work our way back?"

Roy had to smile faintly at the familiar question, the same one Johnny had asked just a few minutes ago, inside the smoke-filled saloon.

"Yeah," Roy agreed, "sounds like our best bet."

He looked back at the Sheriff who was now wearing a faint smile of his own.

"I figured it'd be you," the lawman said. He motioned at the rescued men. "We'll see to it that they're moved in back of the General Store with the others."

"Make sure that that you keep these unconscious men sitting up, their heads back just like we have 'em now," Roy instructed quickly. "Keep the conscious one sitting up too, and be careful of that ankle. And have someone watch them all, including Dixie."

"Keep a close eye on the big guy, especially," Johnny chimed in. "He's the one who woke up disoriented and swinging. If he wakes again, he could still be dangerous. And make sure you don't shake Dixie up too much - try to move slow and keep her head still."

Roy thought for a moment. "You and the others should probably stay with them for a while. You breathed in a lot of smoke, and you need some fresh air before you head back to the lines."

The sheriff almost looked like he wanted to refuse, but another coughing fit stole his breath before he could. That seemed to be a better argument than Roy could make himself.

"Aright," the sheriff agreed once the coughing finally subsided. "We'll wait as long as we can. Good luck, and be careful. The way that fire is spreading, you won't have much time."

Roy accepted the warning with a nod, and then turned, hurrying over to the water barrels, Johnny at his side. They soaked their bandanas again, then retied them over their faces. Roy wondered if he was imagining the way that the air seemed to grow hotter as they jogged over to the ladder, or if the fire had really spread that much already.

Ely, the bartender, was one of the men standing at the base of the ladder, helping to keep it steady.

"There are six rooms upstairs," Ely offered quickly. "Three on each side, with a hallway in the middle. If they're still in their rooms, Harrison rented the back room on the left. Lane's got the middle room on the right."

Roy nodded his thanks, and then headed up the rungs, feeling the vibrations in the wood as Johnny climbed up behind him.

He got his answer about how much the fire had spread when he reached the top of the ladder and saw thin tendrils of smoke seeping from a couple of the upstairs windows. They were almost invisible against the now nearly-dark sky, but behind the glass of the window panes, somewhere in the rooms beyond, red-orange embers were glowing ominously.

Roy pulled himself over the last rung of the ladder and onto the balcony. Johnny followed a second later. They tried the door on the left first, since it was closer, and it opened easily when Roy turned the handle. They were lucky that it wasn't locked, though Roy supposed that whoever rented the room probably figured that it was safe enough up here to leave it open. Had the door to the hallway been left open too? If it had, then Harrison and Lane might have tried to leave through the room, but maybe the smoke had overcome them before they could.

Roy found himself hoping for that, hoping that they would be able to pull the men out right away, because as soon as he'd opened the door, billowing tendrils of smoke quickly turned into a heavy cloud that rushed out into the open air. Roy squinted against the sting in his eyes, but pressed forward anyway. It was dark, darker than it had been downstairs, since this time, there was even less light filtering in from outside, and very little light from the fire itself. It wouldn't remain that way for long, though - those embers he had seen behind the window pane were already growing, burning up through the floor, beginning to catch the walls in a few places.

"Hello?" Roy called. "Harrison?! Lane?!"

No one answered, and Roy wasn't surprised. He hadn't really expected their search to be so easy, even if he'd wished that it could be. Sure enough, when he strode over to the door that led to the hallway and tried the handle, the door was locked. Unless Harrison and Lane had broken through the door on the way in, and then locked it again behind them, chances were, this was one room they didn't need to search.

Johnny's thoughts must have been along the same lines, because he called out, "Empty!" a moment later.

"Yeah!" Roy agreed.

Roy looked the room over quickly anyway. In the light of the growing fire, he could see that the layout of the room was a simple one, containing just the bare necessities - a bed, a small bedside table, and a wardrobe. If the other rooms were similar, it would a least save them some time.

Reaching for the door once more, he unlocked it, then stepped out into the hallway, Johnny following on his heels.

"I'll take the right side!" Johnny offered, his voice already rough from the smoke.

"Okay!" Roy agreed, choking back a cough of his own.

Roy heard Johnny move off in that direction, already calling out for the missing men, while he kept to the left side, sliding his hand along the hallway wall, feeling for the doors of the rooms. The bartender had said that Harrison was renting the back room on the left, so-

"Roy!" Johnny called. "I found Lane! He's out here, in the hallway!"

Roy paused to cough, then called back, "Do you need help?"

"No, I can get him! Keep looking for Harrison!"

Roy heard a low groan that didn't seem to have come from Johnny, followed by a few weak coughs. Hopefully, that meant Lane wasn't past the point of no return.

Roy's hand met the wood of the next door, and he found the handle a moment later, but it wouldn't turn. Roy would have given a small sigh of relief if he'd had the breath to do it. Like the first room they'd walked into, chances were, this room had been locked long before the fire had started.

He moved on, a few rough coughs shaking his frame as he continued down the hallway. The smoke was growing thicker by the moment, and the crackling of growing flames was coming from somewhere nearby. Finally, he reached the last door. He found the handle a moment later, but it was locked too. This time, Roy felt a sharp spike of worry lodge itself in his chest. Was Harrison still locked inside his room? Had he even known there was a fire? If he'd been asleep when the fire started…

Pushing those thoughts away, Roy threw his weight against the door as hard as he could. Thankfully, the lock gave way without too much trouble, the frame of the door splintering with the force of the blow.

His lungs didn't appreciate the jolt, and he doubled over for a moment, coughing again, but he stumbled forward, calling out as soon as he could.

"Harrison? Harrison, are you here?"

Again, there was no answer, but the curtains by the window were already ablaze, and in the light of the fire, Roy could just make out an unmoving figure on the bed.

Roy hurried over and tossed the blankets aside before grabbing one of Harrison's arms and pulling him closer, dragging him across the mattress. There was no time to be gentle - that fire was already spreading, working its way up around the window frame. It wouldn't be long before the whole room went, and if Roy had to guess, the rest of the upstairs probably wasn't far behind.

Roy thought he heard a soft groan from the unconscious man as the movement tugged at his still-healing back and shoulder. Roy crouched down as far as he could beside the bed, managing to pull the limp man over his own shoulder, so that his torso rested against his back while Roy held onto his legs.

"Roy!"

Roy heard Johnny's voice carry through the smoke, and guessed that he was at the other end of the hall.

"Roy, you okay?!"

"Back here!" he yelled in answer, already standing and starting for the door. "I've got Harrison! I'm headed out!"

"Hurry! They had to clear out downstairs! The fire's spreading too fast!"

"Okay!"

Roy adjusted his grip on Harrison, and carried him out into the corridor. It was too dark to run, and Roy wouldn't have wanted to risk it while carrying the unconscious man anyway, but he moved as quickly as he could.

Johnny met him in front of that first room, then led him back out onto the balcony. Lane was nowhere to be seen, and Roy realized why when he saw Marco perched on the top rungs of the Livery's ladder, ready to take Harrison from him. That required a little maneuvering between the three of them, but they managed it, and Roy was grateful that he hadn't needed to find a way to carry Harrison and climb over the balcony railing at the same time.

Marco started moving down the ladder, and Roy followed quickly after him. Johnny was the last to climb down, and as soon as his feet touched the ground, the men nearby reached for the ladder, moving it back, away from the burning building.

A short distance up the street, Roy spotted Chet carrying Lane over to a wagon, and Marco was headed that way with Harrison. The wagon was already facing east, probably ready to take the two rescued men to the General Store where the other patients were gathered. A dark-haired man sat up front, already holding the reins of the team hitched to the buckboard. He was clean shaven, though long sideburns ran along his jaw, and he wore a white shirt, with a dark brown vest, and striped navy blue pants.

Roy recognized him, having met the man - Hal - briefly on one of his rounds with the Doc. The horses were clearly anxious about the smoke, and they were shifting in place, tossing their heads, their ears flicking nervously back and forth. Hal was murmuring soothing words to them, trying to keep them calm.

Not wanting to risk the horses bolting, Roy hurried over to the wagon as quickly as he could, pulling his bandana down as he went. Once again, the fresh air felt like something of a mixed blessing, because the first deep breath he drew sent his lungs into a desperate bid to rid themselves of the smoke. He could hear Johnny nearby, coughing just as hard.

Thankfully, by the time Chet and Marco had Harrison and Lane laid out in the back of the wagon, Roy's coughing fit had mostly died down, and so had Johnny's. It would probably be a while before they stopped really feeling the effects of the smoke, but Roy knew they would both be alright in time. Harrison and Lane on the other hand…

Roy gripped the left side of the wagon and pulled himself up into the wagon bed, crouching next to Harrison since he was closer. Johnny hopped up beside him, already bending over to look at Lane.

"You ready to go?" Hal asked, glancing at them over his shoulder.

"Let us check them out first," Johnny answered. "It'll be easier to do that if we're not moving."

Roy pressed his fingers against Harrison's neck and grimaced. Harrison's pulse was fast, almost dangerously so, and his breathing wasn't much better. It was ragged and shallow, his chest rising and falling in a quick, unsteady rhythm. His skin had a gray, ashy undertone that was visible even in the relative darkness, though that darkness was now being pushed back by a growing red-orange light.

Roy looked up, his gaze drawn to the saloon across the street. He saw why the men inside had retreated. The fire on the saloon's main floor seemed almost impossibly bright, most of the room having been swallowed by flames. Upstairs, the fire was now licking at the windows visible on the balcony, the curtains and window frames catching, the fire beginning to burn through the walls, catching the wooden siding.

Marco and Chet had already left the wagon to rejoin the bucket brigade, and the Sheriff and all the other men who'd been inside the saloon were already back in line themselves. The Sheriff had promised they'd wait as long as they could, but Roy certainly couldn't fault any of them for waiting just a few minutes…not with the way the fire was spreading. It was a risk, considering how much smoke they'd taken in already, but he would have done the same in their place. Hopefully, as long as they stayed outside where the smoke wasn't as dense, they would be alright.

The bucket brigade was beginning to focus their efforts on the building next door, to the east. It was a café, Roy remembered, though he'd never been there himself. Sheriff Stanley was calling out orders to concentrate on wetting down the wood on the side of the café that was closest to the saloon. They were fortunate that the saloon was on the end of a block, so the fire didn't have much chance of spreading to the west. It wasn't impossible, but the fire would have to cross a fairly wide side street to do it, and at the moment, nothing was driving the flames that way.

Unfortunately, at some point while they'd been upstairs, as the sky darkened and the temperatures fell, a breeze had begun to stir the air. Roy felt it now as he crouched in the wagon. A gust of wind ruffled his hair…and it was blowing in an easterly direction. It wasn't strong yet, but if it got stronger, it would only fan the blaze.

He saw Johnny looking at the fire himself, and they exchanged grim looks before Johnny called out to Hal:

"Okay!"

As the wagon started rolling forward, Roy reached over to hold onto the side of the buckboard, then lowered himself out of his crouch, so that he was kneeling in the wagon bed. He didn't want to risk being jostled into Harrison as they traveled. The man's pallor worried him, and he hadn't so much as stirred since they'd been outside.

Roy gripped the buckboard a little tighter, and tried to push down a now-familiar pang of helplessness. But, the feeling only grew when a glance back at the saloon showed that the batwing doors had now been lost to the flames.

**TBC**

* * *

Historical and Content Notes

**Head Injuries in the Civil War Era** : As mention in previous notes, the Civil War led to a number of medical advances in many medical fields, including neurology. In fact, "Prior to 1861, clinical neurology within the United States existed almost entirely within the scope of general internal medicine." (Source: neurology (d o t) o r g, "The American Civil War and the Birth of American Neurology - Abstract.) But, the high number of head injuries that occurred during the war created a "unique demand for care of neurological injuries," and eventually, this resulted in "the creation of the Turner's Lane Military Hospital in Philadelphia…considered the first neurological research center in the United States." (Source: same as above.) Nonetheless, even though doctors were beginning to have a greater understanding of head injuries, treatment for them was still fairly basic, and without diagnostic tools such as x-rays, doctors had to rely on observation alone to reach a diagnosis.

" **A relay station for the stage coach"** : This is, of course, a reference to the classic western,  _Laramie_ , which starred Robert Fuller and John Smith as Jess Harper and Slim Sherman. It ran from 1959-1963. I just couldn't resist including a reference to it here. :D

" **Not much that they could do for them" - Treating Smoke Inhalation in the Old West** : The very the first documented use of oxygen on a patient didn't occur until 1885. It was "administered by Dr. George Holtzapple for the treatment of pneumonia." (Source: lunginstitute (d o t) c o m, "The Supplemental Oxygen Tank- From Past to Present.") Over the next few years, oxygen canisters became more widely available, and in 1900, "The nasal catheter [was] first used as a conduit for oxygen therapy." (Source: same as above.) Before those advancements, however, the treatment of smoke inhalation - especially if the patient was unconscious - was largely limited to trying to make sure the patient had access to fresh air.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I'll do my very best to update a bit quicker again, Lord willing. :) 
> 
> As always, thank you so much for reading, and please let me know what you think!
> 
> -Laughter


	10. At Death's Door

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I've said it before, but I think it bears repeating anyway - thank you to everyone who is reading, and especially those who are reviewing!

** Frontier Medicine **

Chapter 10: At Death's Door

The sight of the burning saloon disappeared quickly as the wagon rolled down the street. Hal proved to have a fine touch with the horses, finding just the right balance between too much haste and not enough, and soon, they reached the small gathering of people behind the General Store.

Roy couldn't help but be reminded of the field dressing stations he'd seen during the war. The women and young children would have been out of place there, but the sight of injured men lined up and waiting for further treatment was one he remembered all too well.

Several lanterns had been lit and placed around area, pushing back the encroaching darkness. The injured themselves had been laid carefully along the General's Store's back porch, where the wooden planks kept them off ground, and the overhang offered them some shelter. Roy was relieved to see that the unconscious men had been kept upright, just as he'd told the sheriff they should be. They were leaning against the store's back wall, their heads tilted back so that their airways were clear, and they had each been covered with a blanket. (Given the crispness of the fabric, Roy guessed that the blankets had come from the stock inside the General Store. The lanterns probably did as well - knowing Bill Bryant, Roy was willing to bet that he'd given the group permission to take whatever they needed.) Dixie, too, had been covered in a blanket, though she was laying on her side, another folded blanket serving as a pillow.

Nearby, the man with the broken ankle was sitting up against some unmarked barrels, and a few others were with him, the men who'd been injured seriously enough in the chaos inside the saloon that they weren't fit for the bucket brigade. One had what looked to be a badly broken arm, considering the angle of his wrist, and another was nursing a broken nose. He looked dazed, so he probably had a head injury as well. A third man was holding his side and wincing with every breath - likely because of some cracked or broken ribs.

Some of the women were staying with the injured; two were watching over Dixie and the unconscious men, one was offering the others water from a canteen and a tin cup, and another was tending to some of the men's less serious injuries, wiping away dried blood with a damp cloth. A short distance away, yet another small group of women - along with a few others who were less able-bodied for one reason or another - were busy looking after the children, comforting them and keeping them distracted as best they could.

Roy finished taking in the details just before Hal hopped down from the driver's seat and came around the back of the wagon to help them. As Roy, Johnny, and Hal moved Harrison and Lane over to the porch with the other unconscious men, one of the women brought over two more blankets.

"Is there anything else I can do?" Hal asked, once Harrison and Lane were settled.

Johnny paused for a moment, meeting Roy's gaze. "If we're gonna treat everyone here, we're gonna need supplies," he suggested.

Roy nodded, already guessing what Johnny had in mind. "Good idea."

Johnny reached under the collar of his shirt, pulling out a thick, braided leather cord with a key hanging on it - the key to the clinic. Brackett had given them each a copy with the understanding that they would only use it if they had no other choice. He was, Roy supposed, practical enough to prepare for the worst, despite his insistence that they not treat anyone without his or Dixie's supervision. Roy's own copy rested in his pocket.

Johnny pulled the cord over his head and handed it to Hal. "I'm not sure if Dixie even thought about locking the door to the clinic when we left, but if she did, this'll open it," he explained. "Head there, and get as much as you can from the medicine cabinet and the chest of drawers - that chest is where Brackett keeps his instruments. You'll have to be careful…a lot of it's fragile. The doc keeps some wooden crates down in the cellar, and you should be able to use those to pack everything. If there's still room, grab anything else that you think might be useful."

It really  _was_  a good idea, Roy thought - and beyond the fact that it would be a lot easier to work if they had everything nearby, there was another reason that it was probably wise: as much as Roy hated to consider it, if the fire eventually spread to the clinic, then at least they would still have what they needed to treat the town's casualties.

"On the way back," Roy interjected, looking over at Hal, "let the Sheriff know that we'll have the supplies to keep working from here. Tell him to be careful too - everyone who was inside the saloon, fighting those flames, should stay at the end of the lines, as far away from the smoke as they can. If anyone starts having trouble, they should send 'em to us."

Hal nodded, slipping the key around his own neck before he hurried back over to the wagon, and climbed up into the driver's seat. He spurred the horses on with a flick of his wrist, and the wagon disappeared down the street.

Roy cast one last look in the direction Hal had gone, then crouched down beside Harrison, reaching out to touch his throat, searching for his pulse. It was still too fast, maybe even faster than it had been before, and his chest seemed to stutter with every breath.

Roy sighed as he drew his hand back, his fingers curling a little.

Johnny, who'd been examining Lane nearby, caught his gaze once more. "That bad?" he asked quietly.

Roy nodded reluctantly. "How's Lane?"

"He's not in great shape, but not as bad as Harrison - he's stirred a couple of times. I think he might come around soon."

That, at least, seemed promising. It didn't necessarily mean that he would recover, but it was a step in the right direction.

"Will they be alright?" a soft voice asked.

Roy turned around, realizing that the question had come from the woman who'd gotten the blankets for Harrison and Lane. She was young, barely over twenty, Roy guessed, with auburn hair and dark brown eyes that shown with concern. Her hair was pulled up into a bun, and she wore a simple white blouse and a blue skirt that reached her ankles.

"It's hard to say," Roy answered honestly. He paused, looking her over once more. "You've been watching Dixie and the others?" he guessed.

She nodded. "Yes, I have. I'm Sharon Walters. Betsy's been watching them too - Betsy Williamson."

Miss Walters motioned to a blonde woman who stood a short distance away, and the other woman offered them a small smile, though it wasn't hard to see the strain underneath. Roy could certainly relate.

He dipped his head in greeting, introducing himself and Johnny, though both women already seemed to have a good idea of who they were.

He heard Johnny offer a quiet "Howdy."

"We'll need to examine all the injured, and see how they're fairing," Roy said to the women. "Can you tell me if there's been any change with the four men we pulled out of the saloon?"

"Anne and Janie have been looking after the others, the ones who are awake," Miss Walters answered, "so they'd been able to tell you more about Mr. Fulton - the man with the broken ankle. But everyone here seems about the same." She bit her lip, obviously wishing she had happier news to share. "Nurse Dixie hasn't woken, but her breathing has been steady, at least. The others…none of them have woken either, not even for a moment. And no one has moved. I think he," she pointed at the big man who'd hit Dixie, "might have little more color in his face, but other than that, no one really seems any better. What do you think, Betsy?"

The other woman nodded sadly in agreement. "Other than that, there's been no change to speak of."

Roy had hoped that the women were wrong, and that there had actually been some improvement, but their words proved to be all too true. The big man who'd woken earlier did seem less pale, and his breathing had begun to even out, his heart rate more regular as well. But the last two, the young man and the older Mexican man, were in no better shape than Harrison was, even though Harrison had lain longer in the smoke. Dixie's condition worried Roy almost as much. She seemed no worse, but like Miss Walters had said, she didn't seem likely to wake soon, and that in and of itself could be a bad sign.

Miss Walters and Miss Williamson agreed to continue their vigil, and when Roy and Johnny set about examining the conscious men, the two women who'd been tending to them offered their own updates about the injured. They'd treated what they could, and tried to keep the wounded as comfortable as possible. Overall, the men seemed to be fairly well off, all things considered. The man Roy had rescued from beneath the poker table - Mr. Fulton, as Miss Walters had said - was still coughing on and off, but his pulse was strong and steady, and the congestion in his chest was beginning to clear. His ankle was bruised and swollen, but it seemed to be a simple fracture, and it wouldn't need to be set.

The man favoring his side did indeed seem to have cracked - rather than broken - ribs, so at least there was no danger of a punctured lung. His ribs would need to be wrapped, but there wasn't much else they could do for him. He would simply have to wait to heal. The same was true of the man with the broken nose. His nose had finally stopped bleeding, though he was already sporting the beginnings of a spectacular bruise across his cheeks and around his eyes. He still seemed a little dazed, and he was complaining of an awful headache, but beyond that, he was doing as well as could be expected.

The man with the broken wrist seemed to be in the worst condition. The break was serious enough that Brackett would need to be the one to set it; Roy didn't trust his own skills enough yet to attempt it, and Johnny had said the same. They decided to splint the wrist instead, keeping it immobile until the doc arrived to see to it himself. The splint, unfortunately, would have to wait until Hal returned with their supplies - the General Store had a small selection of lumber, but the boards were too thick and heavy to brace an injured limb.

It wasn't the only thing that would need to wait.

"My arm hurts somethin' awful," the man admitted through gritted teeth. "You couldn't give me something to ease the pain?"

Roy longed to grant the request immediately, but he could only assure the man that they would give him something as soon as they could.

Much to Roy's relief, it wasn't long after they'd finished with the last man that Hal returned with the buckboard. Crates of various sizes now filled it from front to back, though Hal had, thankfully, had the foresight to pack the supplies from the medicine cabinet closer to the end of the wagon, so they could be reached more easily. (Roy dearly hoped that they wouldn't have need of any of Brackett's surgical instruments, though he made a note of their location just the same.) Hal had also tried to preserve as much of the medicine cabinet's organization as possible, which helped a great deal as they worked to sort it all out. There'd been no need to unload the wagon either, since, as Hal had explained, the sheriff had said they should keep it so they'd be ready to move if they had to. That had been both welcome and worrying news; welcome, because it would certainly save time if they had to leave, but worrying because it meant that the sheriff thought they might  _need_  that time.

Hal helped them unhitch the horses, and led them over to the corral, the one Bill Bryant used for the teams that brought goods to restock the store. As soon as that was done, Hal wished Roy and Johnny the best, then turned and started walking up the street to return to the bucket brigade.

Roy and Johnny immediately set to work again, dividing the care of the patients as evenly as they could. It was Roy who administered the morphine to the man with the badly broken wrist. The man had slumped visibly, the tension draining from his muscles as the morphine did its work. Roy made a mental note to keep a close eye on him. Morphine was truly a boon for a wounded man, but many a soldier had come away from the war with an addiction to it,* and he didn't want this man to join their ranks. The morphine, at least, did dull most of the man's pain as Roy and Johnny put the splint on his wrist.

They had just finished wrapping a final strip of linen around the splint when a worried call came from the porch. Roy immediately recognized Miss Walters's voice.

"Mr. DeSoto! Mr. Gage! This man's stopped breathing!"

Roy and Johnny were on their feet immediately, though as Roy caught sight of the man who was in trouble, he wondered if they were already too late. It was the youngest man, and the already bluish cast of his skin was rapidly deepening, his chest still, his features lax.

Roy reached him first, calling out, trying to see if that might be enough to get the young man to respond to him. When it wasn't, Roy quickly felt for his pulse. It was rapid, but faint. Johnny immediately helped lift the man away from General Store's back wall so that Roy could hook his forearms underneath the young man's shoulders. Roy gave him a rough shake, hoping that the jolt would get him breathing again, but there was no change. Roy tried again, and then again, but the young man's chest was as silent and still as before.

He shared a grim look with Johnny before they laid the young man down on the wooden planks of the porch, and Roy tilted the man's head back while Johnny opened his mouth and used two fingers to try to make sure that he had a free air passage.

Then, together they reached for the young man's arms, pulling them up, away from his body, and then pushing them back down, trying to mimic the natural rhythm of breathing. With the thumb and fingers of his right hand, Roy started to apply careful pressure to the young man's chest on and off, encouraging circulation around the heart. the way that Brackett had showed them.*

Long minutes passed as they kept going, but the young man's lungs refused to resume their work. With his hand still on the young man's chest, Roy felt it as his heartbeat slowed, growing fainter by the moment, until at last, there was nothing at all.

"We can stop," Roy told Johnny quietly.

A stricken look of understanding passed over Johnny's features as they laid the young man's arms back down on the porch…a young man who looked even younger now, painfully so. It wasn't hard to imagine him as he'd probably been just hours before, happy to be done with his work for the day. He was clean-shaven, and even streaked with ash as they were, the green-striped shirt and brown pants he wore looked to be almost new. Few bothered to go to that much trouble if they were only going to visit the saloon. Had he been planning call on a lady?

Roy felt a dull ache in his chest at the thought.

A glance at Johnny showed that he was staring down at the young man, his jaw clenched tight, and his eyes dark.

Roy cleared his throat, not sure he could speak past the lump that seemed to have formed there.

"We should move him."

Johnny nodded stiffly and walked around to grip the young man's ankles, leaving Roy to take his shoulders. They lifted the young man's body and carried him away from the porch, gently laying him beside the General Store, where he would be out of sight of the women and children and the other injured.

Roy turned at the sound of a soft footstep, and found that Miss Walters had followed them. She held a blanket in her hands, likely the one the young man had been covered in earlier. With a sheen of tears in her eyes, she stepped forward and carefully draped that blanket over the young man's body, covering his face.

There was a moment of respectful silence, then Roy turned away reluctantly, seeing Johnny and Miss Walters do the same. There was nothing more they could do for the dead now, but the living still needed their help.

Without a word, he and Johnny moved to examine everyone again.

Roy felt sure that they hadn't missed anything when they'd checked on the young man the last time, but a shadow of doubt still lingered. What if they  _had_  missed something? What if there  _was_ something they could have done? Would it have been enough to save his life?

They couldn't afford to think that way, though, not really. Not for long. Roy had learned that much during the war. If you let it, self-doubt would eat you alive, and keep you from doing your job.

Still, they would have needed to examine everyone again anyway, regardless - and maybe it would offer the rest of the group some reassurance. Roy hadn't paid much attention to them as he and Johnny had fought for that young man's life, but now, he could see the shocked looks of the conscious men, their pale faces and solemn stares. The women were teary-eyed, and even the children seemed subdued.

Roy did his best to help, moving from patient to patient and offering comforting words where he could. He heard Johnny murmuring support of his own, though the tense line of Johnny's shoulders told him that the young man's death had hit his partner hard.

A soft moan drew Roy's attention, and he looked over, seeing Johnny crouched in front of Lane.

"Hey, Roy," Johnny called a second later, "I think Lane's wakin' up."

Roy had been in the middle of checking on the man with the broken wrist, but he stood up and quickly made his way over to his partner. Sure enough, Lane was starting to move, his head lolling from side to side, his brow furrowed, his mouth pulling into a grimace.

From what Roy had seen of him, Lane always had the look of a cowboy who'd spent most of his life out in the elements. Roy guessed that he was somewhere in his early forties, but there were deep lines around his eyes and mouth and across his forehead. Right now, the soot streaking his skin had worked its way into those creases, deepening them, making him look liked he'd aged years in the span of a day. Even his short, brown hair and sparse, brown beard had taken on a grayish tinge, which only added to the effect.

"Lane?" Johnny tried. "Lane, can you hear me? Come on, open your eyes."

Lane did - his blue eyes snapping open suddenly before he doubled over, coughing roughly and wheezing as his lungs worked to clear themselves. Johnny clapped him on the back every few moments, trying to help clear the congestion. The coughing fit lasted long enough that Roy had begun to worry about Lane ever catching his breath, but finally, the fit subsided, and Lane slumped over, utterly spent. Johnny caught him and Roy helped to sit him back up against the wall.

"Tilt your head back," Roy told him, "and breathe as deeply as you can."

Lane cooperated, coughing a few more times before his gaze locked on Johnny, and his eyes narrowed. It was hard to describe the expression he wore. It skirted the edges of disdain, but there was surprise as well, and something that almost looked like grudging respect.

Johnny stared back evenly, waiting for the man to speak.

"Got…got off work early today," Lane rasped at last. "Had some drinks. More'n I should've, I guess. Went upstairs to sleep it off. Woke up smellin' smoke, and went out in the hall. That's th' last thing I remember before I saw you."

Lane regarded Johnny for a moment longer.

"You got me out," Lane declared, and there was a hint of disbelief in his words, like he couldn't quite accept what he was saying. "It really was you, in the hallway. I woke up for just a spell, and you got me out," he repeated.

Johnny nodded. "Yeah."

"Why?" Lane demanded, his chest heaving as he struggled to get enough air.

Johnny gave a small shrug of his shoulders that was anything but casual. "It was the right thing to do."

The words were familiar, and Roy knew that, for Johnny, it really was that simple. It had been that simple when he'd saved Jed Miller's life when he'd found him bleeding in his yard, and it had been that simple when he'd found Lane in that smoke-filled hallway.

Lane looked incredulous for a moment, like he expected there to be some sort of catch involved, some sort of ulterior motive, but Johnny just left his answer at that.

Finally, Lane seemed to realize that Johnny was serious, and he gave a hesitant bob of his head. He didn't say "thank you" - given the way he'd treated Johnny three months ago, outside on the boardwalk by the saloon, Roy wasn't really expecting that - but it was hard to miss the gratitude in his eyes.

An unnamable emotion crossed Johnny's face, but it disappeared just as quickly, and a moment later he was reaching for Lane's wrist to take his pulse. Lane still looked a little uneasy, but he seemed willing enough to go along with it.

Roy took that as his cue to start asking Lane about his symptoms.

He complained of a headache and an aching chest - Roy wondered if he might have cracked a rib or two with the force of his coughs - and even without bending down to take a listen, Roy could hear him wheeze with every breath.

But, all things considered, he could have been much worse.

Confident that Johnny could handle Lane now, Roy left to finish examining the man with the broken wrist. Thankfully, he seemed to be doing well. The morphine was still dulling the worst of his pain, and the splint seemed to be doing its job. Roy gave the man a gentle pat on his uninjured arm, then stood up again and walked over to check on Dixie.

It was Miss Williamson who was sitting close by, on the edge of the General Store's porch, watching over Dixie and the Mexican man who rested a few feet away.

"There's still been no change," Miss Williamson said as Roy approached.

Roy nodded in understanding, and then bent down to press two fingers to Dixie's neck. Her pulse was steady, and a quick check of her breathing assured him that it was deep and even. Now that they had the supplies from the clinic, he debated about trying to wake her with some smelling salts, but since they weren't sure how bad her head injury actually was, he was hesitant to risk it. It would be better if she could wake up on her own.

Roy frowned, considering their options, when the clatter of another wagon in the distance made him look up. Soon enough, he was sure that the wagon was headed their way. He stepped down from the porch, ready to meet it, and Johnny joined him a moment later.

When the wagon rolled into view, Roy realized that it was Marco who was driving this time. He stopped a short distance away from where the supply wagon was parked, then hopped down out of the driver's seat.

A man and woman were sitting in the back of the wagon, and Roy didn't wait for Marco to explain and neither did Johnny. They hurried around the rear of the wagon, reaching it just as Marco unlatched the board at the end of the wagon bed. Roy was relieved that both the man and woman were awake and alert, but the woman was pale and breathing hard, and the man was flushed and grimacing, rubbing his chest every few moments.

"They were in the bucket brigade," Marco told them as he helped get the man and woman out of the wagon and over to the porch. "Señor Wallace said that his chest hurts, and Señora Hays almost fainted."

The moment the newest arrivals were seated on the porch, Johnny immediately started forward to examine Mr. Wallace, and Roy began checking over Mrs. Hays. She had brown hair and brown eyes, with streaks of gray just beginning at her temples. Roy guessed that she was somewhere in her mid forties, and she had a slender but solid-looking build.

"Marco said you nearly fainted?" Roy prompted.

"I suppose…I did, but…I'm fine," Mrs. Hays insisted, her chest heaving. "Just…just need a minute…to catch my breath."

"Is there any pain?" he asked.

"No," she said, "no…pain. I just got…real dizzy and weak all of the sudden…and everything started to go dark."

"Has this ever happened before?"

"No, never."

Roy checked her pulse, and found that it was fast, too fast, but at least it was steady, with no signs of wavering. There was a clear sheen of sweat visible on her pale skin, though, and she was cool and clammy to the touch, which told him what the problem was likely to be.

"I think you just got overheated, ma'am," Roy assured her. "But you need to rest here in the cool air for a while, and you should have some water."

Roy glanced away for a moment, looking for the woman who'd been passing the canteen and the tin cup around - preoccupied as he was, if he'd been told her name earlier, he couldn't remember it now. He spotted her by the women who were watching over the children, and managed to catch her eye, motioning for her to come over.

She did, and soon the younger woman - Anne, he learned - was helping to keep the tin cup steady as Mrs. Hays drank from it with shaky hands.

With Mrs. Hays being looked after for the moment, Roy excused himself and walked over to see how Mr. Wallace was fairing. Johnny had him sitting against the General Store's back wall with the others.

"How is he?" Roy asked quietly.

"Okay," his partner answered. "I'll keep an eye on him, but it doesn't seem like a heart attack. I think it's angina.* He said he's had some trouble with it before."

Roy nodded, relieved to hear that for Mr. Wallace's sake as well as their own. With the addition of Mr. Wallace and Mrs. Hays, they had nine patients total, and three of them were in a particularly bad way from the smoke. Under those conditions, it would have been a struggle to care for a man suffering from a heart attack.

He just hoped that they wouldn't be adding any more patients to the tally, though the red-orange glow visible down the street didn't bode well.

Seeing movement out of the corner of his eye, Roy turned a little and spotted Marco by the General Store's corral, watering the horses from the wagon he'd used. Roy supposed that there hadn't been much chance to water them closer to the fire - any water they had on hand was likely being used to fight the flames.

Letting Johnny know where he was going, Roy jogged over to join Marco at the trough.

Marco glanced up as he arrived, offering a very small, tired smile, though his expression quickly grew concerned as he nodded in the direction of the porch. "¿Estarán bien?" he asked. Then, seeming to realize that he hadn't spoken in English, he quickly translated, "They'll be alright?"

"We think so," Roy assured. "With some rest, both Mrs. Hays and Mr. Wallace should be fine."

"I am glad to hear it." Marco smiled again, a little more fully this time. though there was no missing the weary line of his shoulders, or the still-hoarse quality of his voice.

Roy nearly told him about the grim condition of some of the others, as well as the young man's death, but he held his tongue. There would be time enough for that later, when the firefight was finished. Right now, it might only discourage Marco and the others who were still battling the blaze.

Without conscious thought, Roy's eyes drifted back down the street, in the direction of the saloon.

"How bad is it?" he asked after a moment.

Marco sighed, his smile fading once more. "Bad. Very bad. It spread to the café next door, and el viento…the wind…is still driving it to the east."

Roy grimaced, though he wasn't surprised. Now that he'd left the relative shelter they'd found in the shadow of the General Store, he could feel the way the air was stirring, could feel it rustling his clothes and brushing over his skin.

"The café has gone up fast," Marco continued. "Faster than the saloon. The Sheriff has had us emptying the saddle and tack shop beside the café, and the other stores nearby."

Roy didn't answer right away, letting the implications of that settle in his mind before he spoke.

"Probably a good idea," he offered finally.  _At least the owners will have something left when this is over_ , he added silently, unwilling to voice the thought aloud.

"Si," Marco agreed, his tone subdued.

Silence fell, and Roy didn't try to break it, his thoughts lingering on the fire. If the blaze continued to grow the way that the Sheriff seemed to think it would, then they could probably expect many more patients over the next several hours. Roy just hoped that their supplies would hold out long enough to treat them all.

A few, quiet minutes passed, and when the horses finished drinking their fill from the trough, Roy helped Marco hitch the team to his wagon once more. Johnny came over long enough to convince Marco to drink some water as well before he left, but soon enough, Marco was climbing back into the driver's seat and picking up the reins.

"Vaya con Díos, mi amigos*," he told them.

"You too," Johnny returned.

Roy echoed him, and together, they watched as the wagon started down the street, back towards the bucket brigade.

Confident that they were out of earshot, Roy filled Johnny in on the news from the fire before they rejoined the others on the porch. Johnny eyed their supply wagon with the same expression of concern that Roy knew he was probably wearing.

Some supplies - like bandages - were easy enough to replace. While it wasn't ideal, if need be, any clean strip of cloth would do. But other things - some of the medicines especially - would have to be sent for, and it would take days for them to arrive by stagecoach.

Roy was trying to figure out if there was a way to ration some of those medicines when he heard the pounding of horses hooves. Two riders, he guessed, and once again, those riders were headed their way.

"Great," he heard Johnny say wearily. "What now?"

Roy bit back a sigh of his own, bracing himself for another patient, bad news, or both, but when the first rider finally drew close enough for him to see, his shoulders slumped in relief.

There, riding down the street at a gallop, was Dr. Kelly Brackett.

**TBC**

* * *

Historical and Content Notes

**Morphine Addiction** : Morphine addiction truly was a widespread problem after the Civil War. All told, "Thousands of Civil War soldiers who were wounded during combat, or more commonly, became sick in camp, were first dosed with opium or morphine in field hospitals during the war," and as a result, "Many came home struggling with addiction to narcotics." (Source: journalofthecivilwarera (d o t) o r g, "Civil War Veterans and Opiate Addiction in the Gilded Age.") One Union solider described his experience with morphine addiction this way: "No tongue or pen will ever describe…the depths of horror in which my life was plunged at this time; the days of humiliation and anguish, nights of terror and agony, through which I dragged my wretched being." (Source: same as above.)

" **The way that Brackett had showed them" - Resuscitation methods in the Civil War era** : CPR as we know it didn't actually come about until 1960. (Source: cpr (d o t) heart (d o t) org, "History of CPR.") However, throughout history, various methods were used to try to revive a person who had stopped breathing. In the 1500s, one method involved flagellation, essentially "whipping the victim to try and shock the body back to life." (Source: australianscience (d o t) c o m (d o t) au, "Resuscitation through the ages.") Then, in the 1800s in the United States, there was the "trotting horse method," which involved putting a drowning victim on the back of a horse, with the idea that "the movement would result in alternate compression and relaxation of the chest." (Source: same as above.) But, the majority of the technique I had Roy and Johnny use in this chapter was drawn from the account of Dr. Charles Leal. He was the military surgeon who was the first on scene when President Abraham Lincoln was shot in the head at Ford's Theatre on April 14, 1865. This very early form of CPR is the method that Dr. Leal used to try to revive the wounded president. His efforts did in fact help to prolong Lincoln's survival, though, sadly, the wound was ultimately fatal. (Source: infouci (d o t) org, "History of the cardiopulmonary resuscitation (Part One).")

 **Angina** : Angina is "a type of chest pain caused by reduced blood flow to the heart." (Source: mayoclinic (d o t) o r g, "Angina.") Descriptions of it stretch all the way back to 1632, "in the memoirs of the Earl of Clarendon," though the most detailed description of it seems to come from William Heberden, during his presentation "to the Royal College of Physicians in 1768." (Source: rwjms1(d o t) umdnj ( d o t) edu, "Description of Angina Pectoris by William Heberden.")

 **Spanish translation** : "Vaya con Díos, mi amigos." - "Go with God, my friends."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: We're nearing the end of the fic - just a couple more chapters to go. :)
> 
> As always, thank you so much for reading, and please let me know what you think!
> 
> Take care and God bless!
> 
> -Laughter


	11. Sawbones

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This has been the longest break between updates yet, and I sincerely apologize! Health issues reared their ugly head, and I've been forced to take it very easy, even when I don't want to, which means I've fallen behind on quite a few things over the last week or so. But I hope this chapter is worth the wait. :)

* * *

** Frontier Medicine **

Chapter 11: Sawbones

The pounding of hoof beats grew louder as Dr. Brackett's horse closed the distance, and behind him, Roy caught sight of Maurice Thompson, the old miner who'd volunteered to wait for the doc at his place. Thompson was making good time too, though Brackett certainly had him beat.

As soon as the doc reached the General Store's backyard, he pulled his horse up not far from the supply wagon and jumped out of the saddle. He loosened the saddle strings with a few quick tugs, grabbed his medical bag off the saddle horn, and spun around to face them.

Roy wasn't the least bit surprised by the first words out of Brackett's mouth.

"Where's Dixie?"

"She's over here," Roy answered, already moving towards the porch.

Brackett must have caught sight of her because he rushed ahead, bounding up on the porch and kneeling at her side. He dropped his bag and started to examine Dixie right away, his hands running over her head with an unmistakable tenderness.

"A patient did this?" Brackett asked, clearly repeating what Maurice Thompson had told him.

Thompson himself had pulled his horse up beside Brackett's and dismounted. He was already starting to lead the horses over to the General Store's corral, clearly planning to see to both his own horse and the doc's after what had obviously been a hard ride from the doc's house.

It was Johnny who answered Brackett's question.

"Yeah, it was a patient…an accident." He nodded at the big man a bit farther down the porch. "He woke up disoriented, thought he was still inside the saloon. He started swinging, and it happened so fast that Dixie didn't have a chance to get out of the way."

Brackett grimaced, his hand lingering on Dixie's jaw, his thumb brushing back and forth over the curve of her cheek.

"Dixie hasn't woken up since then, but her pulse and breathing have both been steady," Roy offered. "And Miss Williamson has been watching over her when we can't."

Brackett glanced up, finally noticing Miss Williamson who was sitting on the porch a few feet away. Brackett offered her a distracted nod, then turned his focus back to Dixie, conflicting emotions playing over his face.

Imagining Joanne in Dixie's place was enough to give Roy a good of idea of what the doc was probably feeling. Dixie was stable for now, and she was already being watched. There was no  _medical_ reason for Brackett to stay at her side. But he clearly wanted do that anyway, even though his instincts as a doctor urged him to look after the others who might be worse off.

Finally, Brackett pulled away from Dixie and stood up, picking up his medical bag once more. "What kind of injuries are we looking at?" he asked. "And how are our supplies?"

Roy and Johnny quickly told him about having had the supplies brought over from the clinic, then they offered him a quick list of the patients they had been treating. Brackett looked especially grim when they told him about the young man who had died a short while ago. That grim expression remained as the doctor examined Harrison, as well as the big man who had yet to wake again, and the Mexican man. Lane, thankfully, continued to improve, and the same could be said of Mr. Fulton, who, despite his broken ankle and the lingering congestion in his lungs, seemed to be on the way to recovery.

When he'd finished looking over those who seemed to be in the most serious condition, Brackett moved on to the others who'd been hurt as they fled from the saloon. As Roy described their injuries, he'd ended with the man who had the broken wrist, and explained that they'd decided not to try to set the break themselves. Brackett assured them that they'd made the right choice. The injury was serous enough that even the doctor's own skills didn't guarantee that the bone would heal completely. Only time would tell. (The man himself took the news with relative aplomb, but Roy guessed that the morphine might have had something to do with that. He resolved to have a quiet word with Brackett about it later.) Brackett had just begun checking on the man with the cracked ribs when a call came from the other side of porch.

"Dr. Brackett! I think Mrs. Brackett is waking up!"

Brackett was on his feet in an instant, his quick strides carrying him across the boards in a few seconds. Roy was just behind him, and Johnny was right on his heels, and as soon as they reached Dixie they heard it: a soft groan.

"Dix?" Brackett asked, kneeling down beside her.

Her eyes fluttered open a moment later, then closed again. When they opened a second time, her eyes finally focused on Brackett, though it took a minute for her gaze to clear.

"Kel?" she said at last.

"Welcome back, Dix," Brackett answered, relief evident in his voice. "You gave us quite a scare."

Dixie stared at him for a few seconds, and then her gaze drifted to where Roy stood with Johnny.

Roy nodded at her, not bothering to hide his own joy at seeing her awake again, and a glance at Johnny showed that he was wearing a relieved grin of his own.

Dixie managed to give them a bleary-eyed but fond look before turning her attention back to her husband, though a wince interrupted whatever she might have been planning to say. "Oh, I have an awful headache."

Brackett's lips quirked faintly in a sympathetic smile. "I'll bet. Do you remember what happened?"

Dixie frowned, her brow furrowed. "One of the men who was rescued from the saloon was waking up, and I…" Dixie paused, a look of frustration quickly replacing the frown. "I was too close, wasn't I?"

Brackett smiled again at the tone of disgust she'd used, but his words were firm. "It wasn't your fault, Dix. It was no one's fault. Accidents happen."

"But I know better than to get that close," she insisted.

"And I know better than to argue with you, but I'm going to do it anyway," Brackett returned evenly. "Now, stop blaming yourself for something you had no control over, and let me take a look at you."

Roy knew that if Dixie had been at her best, she might very well have had a retort for that, but he could tell by the pinched look she wore that her headache was every bit as bad as she'd claimed. She offered no resistance as Brackett did a thorough exam, though there were a few put-upon sighs and pointed looks that said how she felt about it all.

"Really, Kel, I'll be fine," she insisted when Brackett reached for her wrist to check her pulse yet again. "Just let me rest for a while, and then I'll-"

Brackett held up his free hand up before she even finished. "Resting is all you'll do for now, Dix."

Roy stifled a laugh as Dixie gave him the same look she had given many an obstinate patient. "Don't start that with me, Kelly Brackett. Right now, you need all the help you can get."

"What I  _need_  is to know that you're alright," Brackett said firmly. "And you know as well as I do that the best thing for a head injury is rest. Plenty of it. You'd be telling me the same thing if I was in your place."

Dixie opened her mouth to object, but she must have realized that he was right, because she shut it just as quickly. "Fine," she agreed at last. "But I don't have to like it."

"I never said you did." Brackett's smile had a teasing edge this time, though it was softened by the kiss he pressed to the back of her hand. "I still have some patients to see to, but I'll be back to check on you soon."

Dixie huffed in exasperation, but a very small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.

Brackett gave her one last smile of his own, then stood and started back down the porch, heading towards the man he'd been treating before Dixie had woken up.

Dixie's gaze returned to Roy and Johnny as soon as he was gone, and her expression grew serious.

"How's everyone else doing?"

Roy shared a look with Johnny, uncertain about just how much to say.

He should have guessed that their reluctance would be enough to make Dixie realize the truth.

"Who did we lose?" she asked softly.

Johnny sighed and looked down. "The kid - he wasn't much more than a kid, anyway."

Dixie nodded sadly, a solemn mask slipping over her features. Roy recognized it from their time at Chattanooga. It was the same look she'd worn in the medical tents, when they'd been forced to watch as other young men - boys, really - bled and died alongside soldiers twice their age.

There had been so many of those boys that Roy had lost count. Too many.  _One_  was too many.

"I know you two did everything you could for him," Dixie assured firmly, as though reading Roy's thoughts. "What about the others?"

"The men we pulled from the saloon are in the worst shape," Roy answered. "The one who hit you wasn't conscious for long, and he still hasn't woken up again. The Mexican man…there's been no change. The man with the broken ankle is fairing well, all things considered, and we got Harrison and Lane out from the upstairs. Lane seems to be on the mend, but Harrison's in a bad way. The rest aren't all that well off - we've got a few injured men who escaped from the saloon when the fire started, and a man and a woman from the bucket brigade - but it seems like they'll be alright in time."

Dixie nodded again, though now there was a crease between her brows; the frown was probably from hearing about the number of patients they had to care for already, Roy guessed. He had a feeling that when Brackett returned to check on her, she would try once more to convince him to let her help.

She might have tried to convince  _them_  if her headache hadn't chosen that moment to make its presence known again. She winced, closing her eyes and grimacing.

"We really should let you get some rest," Roy told her, intentionally echoing Brackett's words.

Maybe now, at her body's insistence, she would actually listen.

"Just relax as much as you can, Dix, okay?" Johnny added. "We'll take care of everyone."

Dixie gave a frustrated sigh, but she leaned back against the folded blanket that was serving as her make-shift pillow and closed her eyes.

Roy reached down to give her shoulder a squeeze, then stood up, catching sight of Maurice Thompson once again. The older man was standing outside of the corral now, watching as his and Brackett's horses drank their fill of water. With his free hand, he was rubbing his bad shoulder - the one he'd hurt in that mine collapse all those years ago. Wanting to make sure that Thompson was alright, Roy told Johnny where he was headed and started over to the corral. He heard Johnny offering a few more comforting words to Dixie, though he was too far away to know what they were.

"Is your shoulder bothering you?" Roy asked when he reached Thompson's side.

The older man immediately turned to face him. He was clean shaven, with gray hair and blue eyes, and he had square jaw, a heavy brow, and a cleft chin. He wore gray suspenders and a red-striped shirt with a faded red bandana tied around his throat. A black ten-gallon hat sat atop his head.

"Naw," Thompson assured. "No more'n usual, anyway. It just aches from time to time, is all."

Roy imagined that the hard ride from Brackett's house hadn't done it any favors, but there hadn't really been any choice about that, and if Thompson didn't want to mention the ride, then Roy wouldn't either.

"Do you mind if I take a look?"

"Go right ahead," Thompson agreed.

Roy did a quick examination, gently feeling around the damaged joint. He could feel the malformation of the bones that had never quite healed correctly, but he was relieved to find that the joint didn't seem to be swollen.

"It seems alright," he said at last, stepping back. "But it would probably be a good idea to rest it, if you can."

Chances were that the reminder wasn't necessary - Thompson had been dealing with the injury for years already - but Roy felt obligated to say it nonetheless.

Thompson himself just gave an easy nod in answer, then reached up to pat the neck of Brackett's faithful black gelding.

"I wanted to thank you for getting the doc here," Roy added, "and for letting my wife know what's going on."

Thompson shrugged his good shoulder. "Figured it was the best thing I could do - getting the doc. And talking to your wife weren't no trouble, Mr. DeSoto. A mighty fine missus you got there. She said to tell you to be careful."

Roy couldn't help but smile faintly in appreciation, both at the compliment, and at his wife's message. Joanne knew him well…too well, sometimes. She knew that he wouldn't be satisfied to sit idly by when others were in trouble.

He hadn't been able to do that during the war, and he couldn't do it now.

He was about to offer Thompson his thanks once again, when the familiar clatter of a wagon caught his attention. A glance at the porch showed him that both Brackett and Johnny were already moving to stand where they could meet it.

Roy quickly excused himself from Thompson's side and hurried over to join them.

This time, it was Chet at the reins, and Roy guessed that whoever these new patients were, they were in more serious condition than the last two, because Chet seemed to be driving the horses as fast as he dared without jostling his injured passengers. He kicked up a small cloud of dust as the wagon rolled to a stop.

"These lads are hurt bad!" Chet exclaimed immediately, hopping down out of the driver's seat. "They were in the saddle shop! A burnin' beam fell on 'em!"

Roy's legs were carrying him to the back of the wagon before he'd even fully registered the words. His eyes widened faintly as soon as he caught sight of the men who were laid out in the wagon bed. He'd been prepared for the blood, but he hadn't been prepared to recognize both men.

The first man, Deke Evans, had short brown hair and sharp features, with high cheekbones and a pointed chin. He had a lean build, and was wearing brown pants, a blue shirt, and a brown vest. A blue bandana hung around his neck, bunched up around his jaw, like it had slipped from its place over his mouth and nose. He was unconscious, and one shoulder was clearly sitting at an unnatural angle - dislocated, Roy guessed. There were a few burns on his arms and chest, but they didn't look particularly deep. If that was the worst of it, maybe he'd been lucky. Then again, sometimes it was the injuries you couldn't see that were the most dangerous.

Roy swallowed hard. He had gotten to know Deke pretty well over the last couple months. Joanne had met Deke's wife, Susan, at a church social, and they'd quickly become good friends. He, Joanne, and the children had been over at the Deke and Susan's house for dinner just last week.

The other man, Dick Chandler, had blond hair, a broad forehead, a long nose, and a wide mouth. His eyes, Roy remembered, were blue, but his eyes were closed now, his face worryingly lax. A still-damp, red bandana hung loosely around his neck, and he looked to have been wearing a green shirt and dark pants, though both fabrics were stained a deep scarlet in several places, and even turned black where the material had been charred.

Roy didn't know Dick quite as well as he knew Deke, but his wife, Molly, was yet another friend of Joanne's, and Dick and Molly's young daughter, Jeanine, was set to start school with Chris and Jennifer next year.

Beside him, Johnny had gone still with surprise. He knew both men too, having met them through Roy.

Roy drew a deep breath and did his best to push his feelings aside. Right now, Deke and Dick didn't need them to be their friends, they needed them to be Brackett's assistants.

Brackett, with his medical bag in hand, was already climbing up into the wagon bed to look over his new patients. He started with Dick first, kneeling beside him and pressing his fingers to Dick's bloodied throat. The grim set of Brackett's jaw was enough to tell Roy what the doctor had found, and he felt dread curl in his stomach. His worst fears were confirmed when Brackett quickly took his stethoscope from his bag. He put the ear pieces into his ears, then leaned down to press the bell carefully to Dick's chest, over his heart, clearly hoping that the instrument might find what he hadn't found by touch alone: a pulse.

The doc listened for a long moment, changing the position of the stethoscope's bell once, twice, and even a third time, but through it all, his expression remained grim. Finally, he sat back on his heels and shook his head.

Later, Roy told himself. Later, there would be time to grieve; later, he would figure out what he would say to Molly and Jeanine.

Brackett quickly turned around and began to examine Deke. This time, at least, Brackett didn't have any trouble finding a pulse, but there was no mistaking the concern on his face. The doctor used his stethoscope to check Deke's lungs next, then began an examination of his abdomen, pressing gently with his fingers. He even tugged Deke's shirt up so that he could get a better look at his abdomen without the fabric in the way. The bruising there was red and angry.

Brackett sat back on his heels again and grimaced. "He's bleeding into his belly. He needs surgery. Now."

Chet, who'd been standing nearby with his soot-covered bowler hat in hand, frowned. "D'ya need me to take 'im over to the clinic for ya, Doc?" he asked quietly.

Brackett shook his head. "I'm not sure he'd survive the trip. Better to do it here." He turned, looking first at Roy, then at Johnny. "I need a place to work. Somewhere close by, but private if you can manage it."

"What about next to the supply wagon?" Johnny suggested, pointing to the wagon that was sitting a short distance away. "We wouldn't have to move things very far, and we could drape some blankets over the side to block the view."

"That should do it," Brackett agreed. "Let's go."

The doctor grabbed his bag again, putting away his stethoscope and pushing himself to his feet. He walked a few, short steps, then gripped the side of the wagon to steady himself as he hopped down out of the back.

Roy quickly led Brackett over to the wagon that held their supplies, showing him where his surgical instruments had been packed away, and pointing out the crate that held the chloroform. While Brackett began collecting what he'd need, Roy jogged back towards the General Store, asking some of the women - those not already watching over the unconscious men - to find more blankets, along with lanterns to light the space.

While he waited, he saw Johnny and Chet carrying Dick Chandler's body away from the wagon that Chet had driven. They carefully laid Dick beside the young man who'd passed away earlier, and Roy made a mental note to ask one of the women to find yet another blanket to cover Dick with. Eventually, they might reach a point where any remaining blankets would have to be set aside for the living, but for now, they had enough to offer the dead at least that much respect.

The women returned a short while later, and Roy directed them over to the supply wagon with the blankets and lanterns they'd gathered. He thanked them for their help, then quietly pulled one of the women aside and asked her to look after Dick. She gave a solemn nod and promised that she would.

When the women had left, Roy set to work, spreading a couple of the blankets over the ground beside the wagon, and draping a few more over the side of the wagon, covering the wheels and the area between the axels. The overall effect reminded Roy of the walls of the medicals tents he'd become so familiar with during the war. He figured that it ought to be enough to keep the surgery from becoming an unwanted spectacle.

With their own grim task accomplished, Johnny and Chet had returned to help Brackett move some of the crates holding his instruments. Roy lent his hands to the task as well, and with the four of them working together, they finished quickly. They stacked the empty crates, then lit the lanterns and set them on top of those crates so that the light would shine down over the makeshift operating area.

Once Brackett seemed satisfied with the arrangement, they all worked together to carefully move Deke out of the wagon where he lay and over to the blanket-covered ground. Throughout it all, Deke himself didn't so much as stir. On one hand, at least Deke didn't seem to be in any pain, but on the other, the fact that Deke was so unresponsive already didn't bode well.

As soon as they were finished, Chet gave the doc his best wishes, offering an Irish blessing, and then walked back to the wagon he'd arrived in and climbed into the driver's seat. He directed the wagon's team quickly to the water trough for a drink, then turned the horses around, headed back in the direction of the bucket brigade.

Roy watched him go and glanced back just in time to see that Brackett had finished cutting away Deke's shirt; he'd been forced to cut around the worst of the burns, leaving patches of charred fabric behind where they had stuck to the burned skin on Deke's chest and arms. They would have to work carefully to remove the fabric later, but for now, the surgery had to come first.

Roy helped the doc administer a dose of chloroform next, placing some of the anesthetic* on a small sponge which sat at the base of a cone. When that was done, Roy held the end of that cone over Deke's nose and mouth. His wounds might have rendered him unconscious already, but Roy knew that the cut of a surgical blade was sometimes enough to bring a man around regardless. He hoped the chloroform would prevent that this time.

Roy took the cone away when Brackett signaled that he should, then he watched as the doc picked up his scalpel and made the first incision.

It was easier, Roy discovered, if he didn't look at Deke's face. He could pretend that Deke was just another patient, one of the dozens that he and Johnny had helped Brackett treat in the last few months. He focused on the procedure instead, focused on handing the right instruments to Bracket when he asked for them, focused on Johnny's responses when Brackett asked him to report on Deke's pulse or breathing.

It wasn't that different from what Roy had done during the war, when he'd learned to concentrate on carrying out his duty no matter what was happening around him, and to distance himself from the rest as best as he could. It wasn't easy, and it didn't always work, but it allowed him to keep putting one foot in front of the other. It allowed him to do his job.

"Dr. Brackett!"

They all looked up at the worried cry that had come from somewhere over on the porch.

"I don't think this man's breathing!"

Roy started to rise instinctively, and beside him, he saw Johnny do the same, but then reality caught up to both of them, and they turned to look at Brackett in tandem.

Brackett's bloodstained hands clenched around his instruments for a moment, and he wore an expression of helpless anger as he nodded down at Deke. "If I leave him now, he dies," he doctor said bluntly. "You two go. I'll have to manage alone."

"No, you won't."

Roy turned in surprise to see Dixie walking quickly but unsteadily around the side of the wagon. Miss Walters had one arm around her back, and the other at her elbow, helping to support her. The younger woman was obviously uncertain, clearly wondering if she'd done the right thing by bringing Dixie over. Dix herself, however, had a stubborn look about her that Roy recognized all too well.

"Dix!" Brackett exclaimed. "What are you doing? I told you-"

"There's no time to argue about this, Kel. I knew you'd need my help even before I heard that shout, and I'm well enough to sit here and hand you your instruments."

Brackett seemed both exasperated and relieved. "We'll talk about this later," he warned.

"I don't doubt it," Dixie answered dryly as Miss Walters helped her sit back against one of the wagon wheels.

Sure that Brackett would be able to continue now, Roy pushed himself up from the blanket covered ground, and turned to run towards the porch. He heard Johnny's footsteps pounding in the dirt beside him.

Miss Williamson must have taken over the watch on this side of the porch at some point, because she was the who drew their attention now.

"Here!" she called as she caught sight of him and Johnny. "This one, here!"

She pointed to the man in front of her - a man with dark, curly blond hair that fell to his collar - and Roy felt his stomach clench.

Harrison.

"His heart's beating," Miss Williamson explained as they reached her. "I tried to shake him a few times, like I saw you do with…with the other man. But he's still not breathing."

"You were right to try," Johnny assured her.

He turned to Harrison and pressed two fingers against his throat.

"His pulse is fast," Johnny declared after a moment, "and it's getting fainter."

Knowing they needed to hurry, they pulled Harrison away from the General Store's back wall, and like he'd done with the younger man, Roy hooked his forearms underneath Harrison's shoulders, giving him a few rough shakes. He'd hoped that he'd be able to use more force than Miss Williamson might have managed on her own, and perhaps, it would be enough to get Harrison breathing again.

It wasn't.

Roy shared a look with Johnny as they laid Harrison down on the porch on his back. How long had it been since they'd done the same thing with that young man? Roy wasn't sure.

He just hoped that the outcome would be different this time.

Roy tilted Harrison's head back, and made sure he had a free air passage. When he was certain that he did, he and Johnny bent over, reaching for Harrison's arms, moving them up, away from his body, trying to expand his chest. They pushed them back down a moment later, once again hoping to mimic the rhythm of natural breathing.

Johnny was on Harrison's left, so this time, he was the one to massage Harrison's chest, trying to encourage the circulation of the blood around the heart.

They worked for a full minute, and there was no change, but one look at Johnny's face told Roy that his partner felt just like he did: they had lost the other man; they weren't going to lose Harrison too, not if they could help it.

"Come on, Harrison," Roy heard Johnny say. "Don't do this!"

Another minute passed, but they kept going.

Harrison had endured being shot, managed a two-day trek through the desert with a bullet lodged in his back, and then battled through the infection that followed.

If he could do that, he could survive this.

"Come on, Harrison," Roy insisted. "Come on!"

They continued to move his arms up and away from his chest, and then back down, and finally, they heard it: the very quiet rasp of an indrawn breath. He and Johnny stopped to watch and listen as a faint breath followed the first, and then another, and another…

It was worryingly shallow, and still far too slow, but he was breathing again.

He was breathing.

Roy saw Johnny swallow hard and close his eyes for a moment in relief. Roy could relate - he felt like a weight had lifted off his own chest, and he took a small step back, taking just a moment to brace himself against the sudden rush of emotion.

When he felt a little more steady, he leaned forward again to check on Harrison. He wasn't out of the woods yet, and it was plain to hear just how congested Harrison's lungs were. They'd have to keep a close eye on him until his breathing was stronger, and for now, it was best not to move him, or to try to sit him up until his condition had stabilized. Even then, there was no guarantee that he wouldn't stop breathing for a second time.

But with every rise and fall of Harrison's chest, Roy found himself feeling a little more hopeful.

A few minutes later, when he left the porch to give Brackett an update on Harrison's improving condition, he felt a strong breeze stirring the air, this time blowing from the west instead of the east.

Maybe, Roy thought, just maybe, there was another reason to be hopeful as well.

**TBC**

* * *

Historical and Content Notes

**Deke Evans** : Deke is, of course, meant to be the same Deke we see in the season three episode, "Inferno." In the episode, his wife, Susan, is said to be Joanne's best friend, and she's the one to take her anger out on Roy at the hospital. Deke's not given a last name in the episode, so I chose the name "Evans" for him here.

 **Dick Chandler** : Dick is the fireman who died in the line of duty as was talked about in the season six episode, "The Exam." In that episode, it's Dick's wife, Molly, who keeps calling the station for help, and their daughter, Jeanine, who falls out of a bunk bed. Dick is also not given a last name in the episode, so "Chandler" was my own choice.

 **Anesthesia in the Civil War Era** : As mentioned in previous notes, a variety of pain killers were available during the Civil War, including morphine, but, "Anesthesia was in its infancy when the American Civil War began in 1861." (Source: uab ( d o t) edu, "Anesthesia came of age during Civil War.") In fact, "sulfuric ether was first used in 1846, and chloroform a year later [in 1847]." (Source: same as above.) Nonetheless, these anesthetics were widely used by both the North and South, and despite what Hollywood would have us think, "Anesthesia was used in 95% of Civil War surgeries." (Source: civilwarmed (d o t) org, "Anesthesia in the Civil War.") Still, there may be a reason for the stereotype of surgeries without anesthetic, since, "Only a low dose of anesthetic was used during the Civil War, just enough to make the patient insensitive to pain…Many men moaned and moved about due to the agitating effects of a light dose of anesthetic. Some had to be held down by assistants, but they were unconscious and could not feel pain. Outside observers may have assumed that the men were being operated upon with no anesthetic, not understanding that the groans and thrashing movements were caused by the chloroform or ether." (Source: same as above.) The procedure that Roy uses to administer the anesthetic in this fic was the same one that was used during the Civil War. (Source: same as above.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: One last chapter to go. :)
> 
> As always, thank you so much for reading, and please let me know what you think!
> 
> Take care and God bless!
> 
> -Laughter


	12. A Pound of Cure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Health issues have still been getting in the way, along with work and just general busyness, so once again, I'm posting this last chapter much later than I wanted to, but I hope that you all enjoy it just the same. :) This fic was so much fun to work on, and I am honestly blown away by the comments I've gotten. I've said it before, but your comments mean more than I can say. I will miss playing in this Old West universe, and while I can't promise anything, in the future, I might just write a shorter fic or two that takes place in this same AU. But please know that it may take me a while, as I have a number of other projects to work on, including a WIP for another fandom, and an original novel. :)

**Frontier Medicine**

Chapter 12: A Pound of Cure

In the end, the changing winds  _had_  given them what they needed: a chance.

The fire had consumed the saloon, the café, and the saddle and tack shop, and the flames had just begun to spread to the building that housed the town's newspaper, the Mud Springs Gazette. But the winds had shifted just in time, a steady westerly breeze pushing the fire back onto itself enough to delay its progress, and the weary bucket brigade had rallied, managing to get ahead of it at last.

Roy hadn't seen the firefight himself, but he'd watched as the red, ominous glow of the fire down the street had gradually dimmed, and he'd learned the details from the members of the bucket brigade who'd joined them over the course of the night. (A number of them were suffering from the smoke, and some were doing poorly enough that Brackett insisted they stay for observation. There were others who had strains, sprains, and raw, blistered hands from the hours of unrelenting work, and a few of those who'd gotten the closest to the flames had some minor burns.)

As soon as the fire was under control, and they were certain that there was no chance of it spreading anymore, Brackett had decided to move the patients to the clinic, since he felt that the men who were in the worst condition - Deke, Harrison, the big man who'd been disoriented, the Mexican man, and Lane - were stable enough to make the trip safely. He'd hoped that a comfortable bed, in place of a hard, wooden porch, might speed their recovery even more. The move itself had been something of a feat with so many people, but thankfully, even more help had come from a number of the women - including Miss Walters and Miss Williamson - who were continuing to offer their services as nurses, watching the patients during and after the trip, helping them get settled, and seeing to their basic needs.

Now…now, somewhere, outside of the clinic, the morning sun was shining overhead, climbing higher as the hours passed.

Just how many hours that was, Roy honestly wasn't sure. He'd lost track a while ago, between one patient and the next, and there'd been no time to look for a clock. He knew that he wasn't the only one. He'd noticed more than a few surprised looks when the first rays of the sun had peeked over the horizon, the pale light shining through the clinic's windows.

Judging by what Roy had seen - both through the windows and during the few trips he'd made outside - the sky itself had become a surprisingly brilliant blue, though a slight haze still lingered over the town from the smoldering remains of the buildings that had been lost to the fire. The blackened piles of wood and ash stood out starkly in the morning light.

There were a few volunteers - one of whom was Vince Howard - standing around the charred, crumbling shells of the ruined buildings, keeping watch for any lingering embers that had the potential to re-ignite. But the majority of the exhausted townspeople milled blearily around the streets, in search of a hard-earned breakfast.

Thankfully, there was plenty of food to be had, as still more people had arrived from the surrounding areas. They had created a sort of makeshift camp in the middle of the town, serving food they had brought with them, and offering blankets, coffee, and some extra water for washing and drinking. Roy had no doubt that back at their bunkhouse, Joanne was probably cooking as well, putting together dishes that she would bring to town as soon as there was someone else who could watch the children.

Roy hoped that he would be able to join her at home soon, since the steady stream of patients they had to treat finally seemed to have slowed down. It certainly helped that he, Johnny, and Dr. Brackett were no longer the only trained - and able-bodied - hands available. The first chance he'd had, Dr. Brackett had asked Sam Lanier, the telegraph operator, to send a wire to Dr. Joe Early in Victorville, relaying the news about the fire and asking for aid. The good doctor, his nurse, Carol, and a Negro man named Mike Morton had driven overnight to Mud Springs in a wagon, arriving shortly before dawn.

Morton, as it turned out, was training to be Early's assistant, the way that he and Johnny were training to assist Brackett. (The idea seemed too promising not to try it himself, Dr. Early had said with a smile.) Morton had been a buffalo soldier*, Dr. Early had explained, and during his time with the army, he'd been given some basic instruction to help serve the medical needs of his regiment. He'd enjoyed the work, and after he'd been honorably discharged from service, he'd made his way to California, learning from any physicians willing to teach him, until he'd met Dr. Early in Victorville. Eventually, Early said, Morton hoped to become a doctor himself.

Early, Carol, and Morton's help had certainly been a boon. With so many people to see to, trying to manage their care - and the care of those who were the worst off - had become a bigger and bigger challenge.

Thankfully, the men who'd been in the most serious condition were all showing signs of improvement. Deke was recovering from surgery, his shoulder had been set, and his burns had been cleaned. He'd even woken briefly, and been coherent enough to answer Brackett's questions about how he felt before he'd drifted off into a more natural sleep. Deke's wife, Susan, on the other hand, had been almost inconsolable when she'd learned what had happened to her husband, her fear manifesting as anger - anger that she had taken out on Roy the minute she'd set eyes on him. She'd begged his forgiveness as soon as she'd calmed down, though, and Roy had accepted the apology at once. He knew that her anger hadn't been directed at him, not really. Susan was sitting at Deke's bedside now, one of his hands clasped firmly between both of hers.

Jack Harrison, for his part, had yet to wake, but his strained breathing had slowly improved, and Brackett was hopeful that with time, he would make a full recovery. Dr. Early had said that given what he'd been through, the poor man either had terrible luck to have suffered so, or wonderful luck to have survived it all. Roy hoped that Harrison decided to focus on the latter.

There was more good news as well. The big man that they had rescued from the saloon - Seth Dobson, Roy had learned - had finally regained consciousness. His breathing was still terribly rough, but it was gradually improving, and overall, his condition seemed to be stable. He'd been horrified to learn that he'd hit Dixie, and it had taken some assurance from Dixie herself to finally ease the obvious guilt he felt.

The Mexican man - one Andres Davalos - had been disoriented himself when he'd woken, and it turned out that he understood little - if any - English. Johnny had known enough Spanish to be able to assure the man that he would be alright, but they'd been fortunate that Marco was nearby, being checked out by Dr. Early. He had finally been able to calm the agitated man down after a few minutes.

Lane also seemed to be improving steadily. His lungs were still congested, his breathing noisy enough that Roy didn't need the aid of a stethoscope to hear it, but he was conscious and alert, and his color was good. (He was obviously still uncomfortable with the idea that he owed Johnny his life, and he was doing his best to ignore Johnny whenever he was close by, but there was no malice in his expression, and Roy was willing to consider that a change for the better.)

The rest of the patients they had been treating - including Mr. Fulton with his broken ankle, and the others who'd been injured in the chaos from the saloon - were all doing as well as could be expected. The man with the broken wrist still seemed quite content under the influence of the morphine, and Roy had had a quiet word with Brackett, explaining his concerns about the man's risk of addiction. The doctor agreed that it would be best to wean him off the drug as soon as possible, though he would remain on it for now, at least until the pain reached a more manageable level.

Mr. Wallace, who'd been suffering from chest pains while working in the bucket brigade, was now resting comfortably, and Mrs. Hays, who'd been overheated, had actually recovered enough that Brackett had released her with orders to rest at home.

All things considered, Roy supposed, the outcome of the fire could have been so much worse.

But that didn't stop him from wishing that it hadn't happened at all.

It had been an accident, there was no question about that, and once the fire was out, the full story had quickly followed, with many a man offering his own first-hand account.

Roy had heard about it from the bartender himself.

The bartender - Ely - said that he'd always been in the habit of keeping an oil lamp with him so that he could see into some of the darker corners behind the bar. He usually kept the lamp away from the bar top, but it had been such a busy night that, when yet another customer had called for a beer, he'd set the lamp down on the counter without thinking. It might not have been a problem, except that Mr. Bo Ames - the same Bo Ames they had treated for a broken leg all those weeks ago - had been standing nearby, knee-deep in a whiskey bottle. When he'd finished his last drink, he'd stumbled against the bar, knocking the oil lamp off of the bar top in the process.

It wasn't clear exactly how, but Ames had apparently managed to flee the burning saloon, and then spent hours hiding behind some hay bales outside of the Livery. Deputy Stoker had been the one to find him. Ames was still mostly drunk, but he'd obviously been coherent enough to realize what he'd done, because according to Stoker, the first words out of his mouth had been a mumbled and fearful, "Didn't mean to."

Roy just hoped that this would be enough to scare Ames away from the bottle for good.

But even if it did, it was a steep price to pay, especially when Roy thought about Molly and little Jeanine who were now mourning the loss of a husband and father. When Roy had last seen them, they'd been in the middle of a hushed conversation with Reverend Matthews. (The Reverend, Roy knew, had been making his own rounds among the weary and grieving townspeople, offering comfort and aid wherever he could.) But it was hard not to worry about Molly nonetheless - Roy knew how much she'd depended on Dick. He and Johnny would have to check in on her soon, see if she needed anything.

Dick's body, he'd been assured, was now in the care of the undertaker, a man who usually had the far less grim task of furniture making.* (Though, Roy supposed wearily, the basics of making a coffin making weren't all that different, really.) The undertaker was also preparing the body of the other young man who'd died - Davy Odom, Roy had learned. He'd seen Davy's family leaving the undertaker's shop in a solemn procession, a tearful young lady bringing up the rear.

Roy sighed and tried to push those darker thoughts away. Right now, he still needed to focus, even if all he was doing was bandaging a man's hand. He was tired enough that it seemed like a monumental task. His weariness must have been obvious, because as soon as he knotted the final strip of linen around the man's injured palm, he felt someone clap him gently on the back, and he turned to find that it was Dr. Early.

"Roy, I just had a word with Johnny, and I'm going to tell you what I told him: I think it's time that you head home," the gray-haired doctor said. "We've got things in hand here - no pun intended," he added, glancing over at the man that Roy had just treated.

Roy snorted softly. He liked Dr. Early. He hadn't had much of a chance to actually speak with the man, but from what Roy had seen, he had an affable demeanor and a wry sense of humor. He looked to be at least a decade or so older than Dr. Brackett, with gray, almost white hair. He had blue eyes, thick eyebrows, and a clean-shaven face, barring the sideburns that reached just below his ears. He'd lost his frock coat somewhere along the line, leaving him in dark blue trousers, a white shirt with sleeves that were rolled up to his elbows, and a blue vest, all of which were rumpled from many hours of wear.

Roy opened his mouth to speak, but the doctor held up a hand as if to forestall any protests that he might make.

"Kel already gave his okay," the older doctor continued. "We have enough help here to get by without you and Johnny for now. You've both earned a rest."

"Alright," Roy conceded. "I won't argue with you."

Dr. Early smiled. "That'll be a change. Kel had quite a bit to say when I suggested that he get some rest too."

Roy grinned. "I can imagine. Did you talk him into it?"

"Not me, but Dixie did. She insisted that he wouldn't be any good to anybody if he fell over from exhaustion, and Kel finally agreed - as long as Dixie agreed to stop trying to manage the clinic from her bed."

Roy couldn't stifle a laugh this time. "Doesn't surprise me a bit. Thanks, Doc. And you and the others try to get some rest too. You've earned it just as much."

"Thanks, Roy. We'll do our best."

Dr. Early gave him one last clap on the back before turning around to make his way over to yet another patient.

Roy watched him go, then started forward himself, looking for Johnny in the clinic's full rooms and crowded hallways.

He finally spotted him over by the medicine cabinet, doing a quick inventory. They had restocked the cabinet upon their return to the clinic, removing the medication from the crates and replacing the bottles on the shelves. Dr. Early, Carol, and Morton had thankfully had the foresight to bring some of their own supplies in case they needed to bolster Brackett's dwindling resources. The bare shelves Roy could see now were a testament to just how needed those supplies had been.

"Am I gonna have to make a bargain with you, partner, like Brackett did with Dixie?" Roy asked.

Johnny turned around to meet his gaze, smirking tiredly. "Wouldn't work.  _I'm_  not trying to run anything from my bed - right now, give me a bed and I'd be out in minute flat."

"You and me both," Roy admitted.

Johnny ran a hand over his face and sighed. "I just want to finish this first, so the Doc'll know what he needs to order on the next stage. Then I'll head out with you."

Roy nodded in understanding. "You want to get something to eat before we go?"

One of the ladies had dropped by the clinic earlier with some food for everyone, but it had been long enough that he could certainly do with more. Besides, if he tried to wait to eat until he got home, he wasn't sure how much he'd actually be able to get down before he fell asleep, even if Joanne had a plate ready and waiting for him.

Johnny nodded as though reading his thoughts. "Yeah. I'm hungry, but I think I'd fall asleep over the pot if I tried to make something myself."

Figuring that they could save a little time if they worked together, Roy helped Johnny finish the inventory, and then they wrote out a list for the doc to look over later.

When that was done, they headed for the exit.

The moment they stepped out onto the boardwalk, Roy's nose was hit with the smell of charred wood drifting on the breeze. He did his best to ignore it, and turned down the boardwalk with Johnny, walking towards the makeshift camp in the center of town.

Roy smiled as he caught sight of a familiar figure a short distance down the street. Brackett must have had the same idea about eating, because like them, he was heading to the makeshift camp. Even from a distance, Roy could see that his black trousers were covered in a gritty brown film from kneeling in the dust while performing surgery on Deke, and his white shirt hadn't faired much better, though the stains were harder to spot on the doctor's vest. The vest's red and gold pattern reminded Roy faintly of some of the fancy rugs he'd seen back East. (Though, admittedly, Bracket might have taken offense to that comparison.) He'd had a black, ascot tie around his neck earlier, but he must have taken it off at some point, because his neck was now bare, the high collar of his shirt unbuttoned at the top and his sleeves rolled up like Dr. Early's had been.

When Brackett paused to let a family pass him by on the street, it was easy enough to catch up with him.

"Hey, Doc."

Brackett turned to regard them with a weary but genuine smile. "Roy, Johnny. You headed home?"

"We figured we'd get something to eat first," Roy answered.

"Can't say I blame you." The doctor paused, and as his smile faded, his expression became faintly reluctant. It was a look that Roy recognized, though he hadn't seen it often. It was the look Brackett wore when he had something he wanted to say, but he wasn't quite sure how to go about it. "Listen, before you go…I wanted to thank you, both of you. Dixie might have been worse off if there wasn't someone nearby who knew what to do. And I'll be honest - I don't know how we would have managed without the two of you here." His smiled turned a little wry, and he snorted softly. "Looks like Dix's little experiment was a success after all. I'm glad it was. You did good work out there. A lot of folks owe you their lives."

"Not everyone," Johnny answered quietly, glancing towards the undertaker's.

Roy knew he was thinking about Davy Odem, and Brackett obviously realized that as well, because he gave a heavy sigh.

"That's always the toughest part of this job. You can't win every battle, no matter how hard you try. But you gave it everything you had, and at the end of the day, that's all you can do. No one else can expect any more from you, and you can't expect any more from yourself. You'll drive yourself crazy if you do."

Johnny blew out a harsh breath and nodded in agreement, though Roy knew that letting go of the inevitable guilt was easier said than done. That was another lesson the war had taught him.

"Hard as the losses are," Brackett continued, "they don't make the victories mean any less…and there  _were_  victories. You saved Harrison's life, maybe even Dixie's. And what you did means more than I can say, to me, to Harrison's family, to every single person you treated. As far as I'm concerned, this town owes you two a debt of gratitude."

"Yes," a feminine voice agreed, "it does."

Roy turned around and was more than a little surprised to find that it was Moira Perkins who had spoken. A few strands of graying, blonde hair were falling out of the bun she wore, and she had streaks of soot on her face, and more smeared on the light blue blouse and brown skirt she was dressed in. Given her appearance, Roy guessed that she must have been a part of the bucket brigade at some point, though what ever weariness she felt had done nothing to soften the sharpness of her gaze.

"Mr. DeSoto," she acknowledged, offering him a nod.

Roy tensed, wondering if Mrs. Perkins would snub Johnny like she had back at her ranch. But her piercing green gaze turned to Johnny next. She regarded him for a long moment, then gave him a brisk nod that looked almost like approval. "Mr. Gage."

She didn't say another word after that, but simply continued on her way down the street.

They stared after her in surprise, then Brackett shook his head, smiling again.

"Maybe I'm not the only one you've won over. In any case, once things start to get back to normal around here, I'd like to discuss extending your contracts. If you're willing, I want you gentlemen to serve as my assistants for the foreseeable future."

It was hard describe what Roy felt in that moment. Joy. Accomplishment. Relief. Beyond that, there was a deeper sense of something slotting into place, like a piece from a jigsaw puzzle*. He had more than a job now. True, it would put food on the table and keep a roof over his family's heads, but it felt like a duty. A calling. And now that he'd had a taste of it, he knew that no other vocation, no matter how respectable, would ever feel like quite enough.

Judging by the smile spreading across Johnny's face, he felt the same way.

"Sounds good to me, Doc," Roy offered.

"Sure does," Johnny agreed. Then he paused, giving Brackett a wryly pointed look. "As long as we'll both be allowed to do more than observe."

Brackett huffed a soft laugh. "Much more - I don't intend to waste good manpower." He gave Johnny a wry look of his own then glanced down the street, towards the makeshift camp. "Well, I don't know about you two, but my stomach's beginning to wonder if my throat's been cut. Shall we?"

The doc certainly didn't have to ask them twice. Together, the three of them started forward again, and the smell of coffee and bacon greeted them almost immediately. Roy inhaled appreciatively. It didn't take long to find the source. Several wagons and a couple prairie schooners were parked along both sides of the street, each one filled with men and women serving plates of food to those lined up outside. Roy saw biscuits and gravy, sausage, bacon, ham, eggs, potatoes, pancakes and even chili up for the asking.

Roy picked the nearest wagon, one serving ham, eggs, and potatoes, though, honestly, his choice had less to do with the meal, and more to do with the fact that it was close by, so his weary legs wouldn't need to carry him very far.

Johnny and Brackett must have felt the same way, because they followed him, and a few minutes later, he and Johnny both had large plates of food and a cup of coffee each. Brackett, for his part, stopped to talk with one of the women working from the wagon, arranging for her - and probably some of the others - to bring more food back to the clinic. When that was done, he accepted two plates, one for himself and another that was probably for Dixie.

"Mrs. Yates said they'll stop by the clinic in a few minutes," Brackett explained, "so I'm going to head back there now with these." He nodded at the plates he held, then gave them both a stern look. "Don't think about following me. I don't want to see either of you again until tomorrow morning at the earliest."

Roy snorted softly. "I doubt that'll be a problem, Doc."

"I know what you mean," Brackett returned, smirking faintly. "Take care."

"You too."

"Bye, Doc," Johnny added.

Brackett gave them one last smile, then turned and started back towards the clinic.

As soon as Brackett was gone, Roy and Johnny began looking for a place to sit. Most of the townspeople had taken to sitting along the boardwalks to eat their meals, so he and Johnny walked along for a short distance, searching for a section of the boardwalk that hadn't been claimed yet.

They drew some attention as they went. Most of the stares were friendly, grateful, even, though Roy wasn't comfortable focusing on the latter. But a few of the looks directed at Johnny were less than neighborly. It wasn't really a surprise, not after months of having to watch Johnny deal with that sort of reaction wherever he went - but it still hurt to see it. There were, Roy supposed, others like Jed Miller, people whose opinions just wouldn't be swayed, no matter  _what_  Johnny did.

But then he remembered Danny Lane's reluctant gratitude, and Mrs. Perkins's apparent change of heart, and he couldn't help thinking that maybe, just maybe, it was a beginning.

Besides, there were others who were the opposite of Jed Miller and his ilk. Others like an ash-streaked Bob Bellingham, who waved at them as they passed. (Then again, there didn't seem to be a single soul that Bob didn't like, especially considering that it was the banker, Craig Brice, who was seated next to him now. Brice offered them a stiff greeting of his own.) There was Charlie Dwyer, who was just as covered in soot as Bellingham, and Ed Marlow, who was seated beside Walter Hookrader, and Dick Hammer, and John Smith, and other men whose names Roy didn't even know.

They were good men, every single one of them.

It was another one of those good men who called out to them a moment later.

"Johnny, Roy, over here!"

It took Roy a moment to finally catch sight of Marco. He was perched on one end of an empty water trough, his plate balanced in his lap. Chet Kelly was sitting close by, leaning against a wooden post, and beside him, Roy caught sight of Sheriff Stanley and Deputy Stoker, both of whom were sitting up against the front wall of the Assayer's office.

All four men had obviously taken the opportunity to clean up a bit, but there was a tell-tale gray tinge to their skin that left no doubt about where they'd been in the fire fight. Still, their tired smiles were genuine as he and Johnny headed over to join them.

And, in spite of the long, hard night they'd faced, surrounded as he was by the men that he was now proud to call his friends, Roy couldn't help but smile back.

**Fin**

* * *

Historical and Content Notes

**Buffalo Soldiers** : "Buffalo soldiers were African American soldiers who mainly served on the Western frontier following the American Civil War." (Source: history ( d o t) com, "Buffalo Soldiers.") They were officially organized in 1866, as part of the "Army Organization Act." (Source: same as above.) It's not entirely certain why Native Americans called these men "buffalo soldiers," but "One theory claims the nickname arose because the soldiers' dark, curly hair resembled the fur of a buffalo. Another assumption is the soldiers fought so valiantly and fiercely that the Indians revered them as they did the mighty buffalo. Whatever the reason, the name stuck" (Source: same as above.) "Buffalo soldiers had the lowest military desertion and court-martial rates of their time. Many won the Congressional Medal of Honor, an award presented in recognition of combat valor which goes above and beyond the call of duty." (Source: same as above.) The oldest living buffalo solider, Mark Matthews, "died in 2005 at age 111 in Washington, D.C." (Source: same as above.)

 **Undertaker** : Though the image of the undertaker has gained some fame in popular culture, "In the days of the Old West…many towns didn't have an undertaker." (Source: wildwesthistory (d o t) blogspot (d o t) com, "The Undertaker: Death and Dying in the Old West.") In fact, "most undertakers were furniture makers or doctors doing double duty." (Source: same as above.) The job of the undertaker did change somewhat over time, however. Initially, it was important to bury bodies quickly, since, "in the early to mid-1800s there was no known way of preserving bodies, and the human body rapidly decays." But, it was actually during the Civil War era that an increased interest in embalming arose, and "it became very common across the nation." (Wikipedia.)

 **Jigsaw Puzzle** : Jigsaw puzzles "go back to the 1760s when European mapmakers pasted maps onto wood and cut them into small pieces." (Source: puzzle warehouse (d o t) com, "The History of Jigsaw Puzzles.") For nearly 150 years afterwards, such puzzles were seen strictly as educational tools or toys for children. However, "Puzzles for adults emerged around 1900, and by 1908 a full-blown craze was in progress in the United States." (Source: same as above.) Since that first spike in popularity, jigsaw puzzles for adults have fallen in and out of favor a number of times, largely inspired by new innovations in manufacturing or improved techniques in puzzle making. (Source: same as above.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thank you again to everyone who has been reading and especially to those who have reviewed. And of course, please let me know what you think!
> 
> Take care and God bless!
> 
> -Laughter


End file.
